Temper, Temper
by Serindrana
Summary: Fynnea Tabris has a passionate temper. Zevran likes to play with fire. Origins-timeline. BDSM flavors, violence, limited angst. Please check each chapter's specific warnings for more information. Updates every Friday.
1. Redcliffe

**Chapter warnings:** Light smut.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

Her father once told her that her temper would be the death of her, her temper and tendency to turn fast to cruel words, but Fynnea has never believed him. Her temper has always helped her before, always supported and borne her along. It was how she'd ended up with a sword in her hand at that bastard Vaughan's estate, how she'd cut through bloody shem after shem, how she'd destroyed him utterly with her sword and her dagger (and even her _teeth_ if the blood taste in her mouth later was anything to judge by), despite the possibility that she was killing everybody she'd ever loved with her actions. She almost had, but- she'd pulled it off. She always pulls it off, in the end.

She'll pull it off this time, too. They're on the second floor of Redcliffe castle, and she's clanging her swords together above her head, then dancing back from the chilled blast sent her way. The spell's ricochet off the stone floor forms into icicles, and Fynnea sidesteps the closest and shatters the largest. She and Alistair are doing their best to keep the desire demon focused on them while Zevran slips into the shadows and moves towards her rear. Wynne lingers at the door at the far end of the room, keeping her distance and sending waves of healing towards the two fighters when they manage not to dodge or block a blast.

Making noise and shouting out taunts is easy and goes well with the thin film of red still hovering before her eyes. She's doing too good of a job at it; Alistair is supposed to be the main target, with his templar skills and heavy armor, but she's making enough noise that he has to shove her out of the way of another bolt of ice. He takes the blow instead, turning instantly into a frozen statue. Fynnea tumbles to the ground, her breath knocked from her lungs even as she tries to laugh at his predicament. He is, after all, the one who brought that film of red upon her in the first place. It's his own fault.

But she doesn't have time to dwell and is soon fighting the urge to kick at the ice sculpture of Alistair, knowing that it would kill instead of free the man. Zevran has just fit his dagger neatly up into the demon's back, and she's howling, filling the room with frost. Her howl is loud enough to wake the dead, who pull themselves obligingly up from the floor. In a matter of moments, the fight has gone from four against one to the infinitely less preferable three against six. At least the demon has disappeared back behind the Veil for a moment, and the team has spent the last night perfecting undead eradication strategies. Fynnea has no barrels of lamp oil and no hardened dwarven mercenary to assist, but she does have a mage who mutters old words and aims a purple streak of energy at one of the undead. It impacts and seems to do nothing, but Fynnea notes the small lines tracing over the decaying flesh and grins.

The corpses are falling towards Zevran, but they pause and shift direction when Fynnea shouts and hollers and slams the pommel of one sword hard against her pauldron. She taunts them, leads them to the center of the room, dances, and then lunges for the purple-marked one, ducking low and stabbing upwards, falling between its legs as her blades follow through and send putrid organs tumbling towards her. She scrambles out of the way just as the falling corpse spasms and erupts in a fountain of magic-infused, death-thickened blood that hisses and burns the other undead on contact.

Alistair breaks free of his ice prison just in time to see the display, and as soon as their enemies have recovered from the blast, he is banging his sword upon his shield, a far more effective draw than Fynnea's earlier imitation. Fynnea and Zevran fall in close together, beginning to pick off the remaining threats while covering each other's weak spots. It's a familiar dance. She manages to allow Alistair to draw all of the attention this time, staying quiet and taking advantage of the corpses' less than intact senses.

As she sinks the sword in her right hand into the chest of one of the last of the shambling, howling corpses, Fynnea reflects that she can sometimes control the boiling rage and manic intensity inside of her - when she absolutely needs to. She had schooled her voice to a dull chill when she told King Cailan just what life in the Alienage had been like, before Duncan cut her off. She had gotten past Teyrn Loghain's first words (_You're pretty for a Grey Warden_, of course. Why did shems always mention her appearance first? Right, _elf_.) without punching him in the face and actually listened to the man for the span of five or ten strange, somehow wonderful minutes. Something between them- she wondered if it had been respect. Strange, that the man who had not twenty four hours later betrayed them could have respected her, a little unproven fire-headed elf with tattoos on her face applied haphazardly by her cousin, if only for a moment.

But she'd behaved. And she was, until just a few hours ago, fairly confident that she knew _when_ to behave. But then Alistair, whom she'd sat up late at night talking with, who had stoically attempted to ignore Zevran's teasing remarks to her and her answering banter despite how much it obviously worried her, who had been there for her after Ostagar just as she'd been there for him, and who fought at her side, at her back, drawing the attention of enemies so she could slip up fast and hack them to bits; Alistair, who was rather silly and adorable and, somehow, a _good friend_ despite his height and his round ears; Alistair who-might-be-king _gave her a rose._ Standing on the shores of Lake Calenhad, he'd handed her a _rose_, a rose from _Lothering_, and ruined everything.

They had been close, comrades in arms, the only two Grey Wardens left in all Ferelden. He'd been by her side through Ostagar, through the horrors of the Circle, through the wandering paths of the Brecilian forest. He knew her past and knew her temper and knew her wicked sense of humor and her impulsiveness and her ferocity. And, she had thought, he knew that when she flirted, she very rarely meant it, and that when she flirted with _him_ it was mainly to see him flustered.

And yet he'd still given her a _rose_ and expected her to swoon into his arms. Why?

Because she was an elf and she was beautiful, pretty for a Grey Warden, a hot piece of ass, tempting enough to _kidnap on her wedding day_, that was why. Her eyes burned and her blood boiled. He gave her a _rose_, and it was so much a symbol of _stop talking to those men_, a way of stopping her flirting with Bann Teagan (he'd said she was beautiful, too), with Zevran (_deadly sex goddess_, though she didn't mind that so much, coming from him, just like she didn't mind him mentioning his type, how he liked strong and dangerous and everything she, conveniently, was), with everybody who wasn't Alistair. But she hadn't flirted with Alistair any more than anybody else. In fact, she'd flirted with him the _least_, because it was all just a joke, a way to unsettle him and a way to pass the time, and she thought that her little cruelties were as obvious as her larger ones. So why was he the one giving her a rose?

Confused and annoyed and still fired up from the previous night's battle, she had been cruel, and her cruelty was large. She had burned him with words and watched as some sort of hope and desire died in his eyes.

_"And so you give me a rose? __**Brilliant**__ plan."_

_His lips had settled into a hard line as he struggled not to- what? Cry? Lash out with a fist? His sword? She didn't know. _

_"Yes, well," he muttered, staring at the water, "I thought we- I guess I was mistaken. About __**things**__."_

_Wynne tried to intercede, stepping between the two. "We're all under a lot of stress, perhaps-"_

_"Shut __**up**__, Wynne!" Fynnea had barked, voice dripping acid, and it wasn't until later that she felt guilty about how the older woman had cringed and shook her head, then turned away._

_Alistair laughed, weakly, muttering, "Now you're shouting at Wynne. Good grief, Fynnea." __**You're a mess **__hovered unspoken. "It was just... it was just a rose. Forget I said __**anything.**__" His words were dead weights, angry and hurt. He walked away from her, finally growling out that they should go find Teagan and accompany him into the castle._

So, her temper has ruined some things. Or rather, other people (_Alistair_; her thoughts hissed the name) ruined some things and she got angry and ruined other things, things that felt a lot like friendship. But she'd had every right to let her anger out, hadn't she?

Just like she has every right to channel that anger now into cutting down the demon, who returns the moment her risen soldiers fall once more. Anger is useful, cruelty a sharp weapon. She rushes the demon, reaches her before even Wynne's electrifying attack, and manages to cut deep into the lithe female form's hip before she feels ice crawl across her skin.

Dimly through ice comes the reverberations of the demon's howl, then a moment's silence. Things hang in crystalline stillness except for the pounding of her heart with its red hot blood, and if she could twitch and thrash she _would_, but the ice prison holds her. There are dim shadows, Zevran and Wynne and Alistair taking up positions around her fragile body, and she tries to concentrate and fight the tendrils of magic that are sending the chill deep below her skin and into her bones.

There's a shout, and the biggest shadow - _Alistair_ - is moving to intercept something, something she can't see. Then, there is heat. It melts her just enough that she can surge out of the ice, but it leaves her burned and in agony until Wynne's soothing magic envelops her. She's back on her feet, screaming towards the writhing masses of flames that make up the two rage demons that are now focused on heating Alistair's armor to a red-hot glow.

As she lunges towards the first demon, she feels another wave of chill, but this time it's from Wynne's hands and her swords are glittering, turning the air around them into ice. When her blades connect, piercing into the center of the flame beast's chest at almost a single point, it shrieks. She pulls apart, slicing the demon in half. The ice magic glittering along the edges of her weapons seals the break, keeps the halves apart until the demon simply melts out of existence.

The other rage demon falls just as quickly, split into pieces that rain down like embers.

And then all that's left is to bear down hard upon the desire demon, who appears just in front of Arl Eamon's bedroom, crouched and panting and bleeding magic, the Veil shivering around her. It's hard to hit her, swords deflecting away, and Fynnea extends too far into a blow and, as it misses, she tumbles down. It's Zevran who strikes the final blow, lunging _over_ her, and she can see how his dagger gleams, beneath the frost spell, with a coating of slick poison.

The desire demon wails, clawing at the blade sunk deep between her breasts. He's buried it in her flesh slightly to the left of center, fit into a spot between bones, and she sags and fades away, leaving nothing but a tinkling of dust and the prone form of Connor.

The kill wound is not echoed on the boy, who breathes weakly but seems otherwise fine. Zevran pulls Fynnea back up to her feet, and they look down at Connor, who could almost be sleeping.

Fynnea sheathes her blades after a moment's thought and kneels, moving to retrieve the dagger from her boot. Before her fingers can close around the small handle, though, there is the sound of slippered footsteps, harsh breathing, and then Arlessa Isolde's plaintive voice, Orlesian accent thick and heavy from strain:

"No! No, do not kill my Connor!"

And Isolde has gotten between Fynnea and the boy.

Fynnea's lips compress into a line. "Step aside," she says, simply, voice rough from shouted orders. "I will do what must be done."

"I can't lose my boy!"

Fynnea's flat expression turns to anger and annoyance. "They're just going to take him from you, anyway," she growls, her voice unyielding and harsh. "Step. Aside."

"I will sacrifice myself! Just let him _live!_"

The Warden's armored fist connects with Isolde's lovely face with a crack.

"_Fynnea_-" Alistair hisses, reaching out to grab her arm, but she shrugs away and steps over the Arlessa's still, quiet body. She sinks to the floor beside Connor, pulling her blade from her boot. A choked down sound of anger comes from Alistair's direction, but she ignores it, straightening her shoulders before she leans over Connor, rolling him onto his back. She considers for a moment, then, pressing a hand to his chest to steady him in case he wakes up, slips the knife between his ribs and into his heart, following the path that Zevran laid out.

Connor twitches once, and then, nothing.

Fynnea pulls the knife out, wipes it clean on the boy's clothes (Alistair makes another of those choked sounds), sheathes it, and stands up. She runs a hand through her hair before turning to face her companions.

Wynne has her eyes carefully focused only on the Arlessa, healing whatever damage Fynnea has done to the woman. Zevran stands a little away, watching the scene placidly. Alistair- Alistair's face goes from red to pale grey as he meets her eyes and sees the triumph and pleasure in them. "You _enjoyed _that," he manages, weakly, and Wynne looks up with the same horrified expression that's now firmly set on Alistair's face.

He's wrong, she didn't _exactly_ enjoy killing Connor, but she can't help a wild grin at their expressions. She darts a glance at Zevran, whose lips curl in a faint smirk, and then Bann Teagan is in the room. His expression is solemn as he looks at Connor and at the slowly stirring Isolde, and his eyes slide over Fynnea where the day before they had lingered appreciatively.

"My brother," he says quietly, and leads the way into Arl Eamon's chambers.

As they step around Connor's body, Zevran appears at her side, leans in close and whispers, "For what it is worth, my Warden, I would have done exactly as you did. Though perhaps I would not have looked quite so untroubled at the doing of it, for the others' sakes."

He smiles and one of his tanned, calloused hands touches her arm, and for a moment her temper doesn't seem so bad after all. At the very least, _he_ understands her. That comfort drops off, though, under long accusatory looks from the others and the way that, when they are attacked by darkspawn on the way back to camp (they have overstayed their welcome at the castle - _Fynnea_ has overstayed their welcome), Alistair nearly cracks one of her ribs when he pushes her to safety, his shield arm connecting hard with her chest. His movements are rough and angry and not at all supportive like they always have been in the past.

* * *

Fynnea hadn't thought it possible, but Connor's death has left Alistair even angrier than her mockery of his gift. They are back at camp and Alistair is yelling at her about Connor and she is using all of her gruff charm to convince him that she'd done everything right, but he is _angry_, so angry, and she's not used to seeing that fury in somebody that's not her.

And he's not _listening_ because of it. She misses the irony of it all (after all, why should she have listened to _Isolde_?)

"_Alistair_," she growls, voice rising, trying to make him _listen_. "The boy would have died no matter what I did!"

He scoffs. "Oh?"

"The Tower," Fynnea points out, as if that should explain everything. It _does_.

Except, not to Alistair. "Oh, don't take Morrigan _literally_," he mutters, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands, and she remembers, vaguely, Morrigan likening the Tower to a large, communal coffin for the endlessly dying.

"You were _there_," she presses on. "You _heard_ Cullen, and you _saw_ the demons, and _you think_ that the Templars would just _accept_, without question or fear, a boy mage who has _already been possessed by a demon and nearly destroyed an arling_? They would kill him the moment they had him in custody and far enough away that Isolde couldn't get in the _way_!" She's shouting now. Barkspawn is stretched out on his belly by Leliana, watching and whining and covering his paws with his ears, and Leliana is doing her best not to look at the Wardens.

Alistair is pale, his jaw clenched. "We didn't have to tell them about the demon."

"_I AM NOT CLEANING DEMONS OUT OF THAT TOWER AGAIN._" She remembers all too clearly the horrors of those curving hallways, after all, and _she_ was the one who had to rescue all of them from the dreams they couldn't see through. "I acted _responsibly_, so _do not question me_."

"Oh, yes, you're the _responsible_ one," he shoots back, glaring. "You're _never_ impulsive and you've _never_ ruined _anything_ for _anybody else_ because of your_selfishness_."

She wants to tear out her hair. Or hit him. Hitting him seems particularly appealing, but she holds herself still, muscles quivering. "What exactly is this _about_, Alistair? Because I know you don't care what happens to Isolde, and I doubt you'd ever even _met_ the boy before tonight," she whispers, voice gone low, and he takes a step back at its cold fury. "Why are you so _angry_? It's like this is all still about that _rose_-"

His eyes widen and she knows she's found it.

"It _is_!" and her voice is loud again, fists clenching at her sides.

"No. It's- Arl Eamon-"

"What, are you afraid that he'll be _disappointed_ in his bastard ward when he wakes up? _If_?" She feels good when she sees his flinch. "And you think _I'm_ selfish? Don't worry," she adds, turning from him. "I'll take all the blame. I don't have a _problem_ taking the blame; I killed Connor because there was no other choice. The trip to the Tower would have taken over a week and he would have ended up dead _anyway_. So gather up your hurt feelings and get them out of this campsite and off the battlefield, because _you're_ the one who can't handle your _temper_. At least _I_ can put it to _work_!"

He stares at her a moment, mouth working, and then throws up his hands. He hisses that he thought that they _had something_, and stalks off to sulk somewhere away from the fire where she can't see him.

After the space of a hundred thundering heartbeats, Zevran slides up behind her, footsteps soft but purposefully audible. His hands settle on her shoulders, lightly, then lift as she jerks away and turns to look at him. He is handsome by firelight (he's always handsome, though, especially since he knows it and he smirks like he's smirking now whenever he catches her looking at him) and her eyes settle on the tattoo along the side of his face, so reminiscent of her own. That focus keeps her still-roiling rage in check, because she wants to punch him just as much as she had wanted to strike Alistair a moment ago; the urge hasn't faded, only settled on another, closer target.

"Leaders must make hard decisions," he murmurs, offering a faint smile, "and you make them well." Her expression remains flat, and he sighs. "You are so tense, my Warden," he says, shaking his head. "What has Alistair been saying to you? No- never mind," he interrupts as she begins to open her mouth, "let's not dwell on it. He is wrong, I suspect, and so you should not worry."

It barely draws a hint of a smirk from her. "Damn straight, he's wrong," she mutters, voice dark and angry enough that Zevran has to visibly resist taking a step back from the fuming warden. She's sure he must have heard at least some of that discussion, loud and angry as it was, but he is diplomatic as always. His consideration cools her anger, but only a little, and she adds, more quietly, "Where does he think he gets off, _chastising_ me for doing what had to be done?"

"Chantry teachings?" Zevran offers up.

"Maker curse his _Chantry teachings_," she growls, throwing up her hands. "I did what _he wouldn't do_ and saved everybody I could, and because it involves a _little boy_that's his sort of half-brother-"

Zevran cuts in, attempting to still her fury, dissipate it before somebody ends up losing life or limb. "As I said, so tense! If I might offer, an Antivan... massage might be useful in helping you to relax?" His lips are curling a little more, brow quirked invitingly even if she is scaring him a little, and if this were any other night, she would have sighed _Finally_ and just let go and enjoyed herself. No strings attached, wonderful, and not fraught like Alistair and his fucking rose. Zevran knows, after all, that flirting doesn't have to mean anything but flirting. But tonight she is still shaking with rage and the rage overpowers that lovely twisting lust he stokes in her and before she can check herself, she tells him, in politer words, to go fuck himself.

His expression falls, and he murmurs something apologetic and wanders off to sit by the fire near Leliana and the mabari.

Fynnea curses and stalks off in the direction of the river they're camped by. _I know what I'm doing_, she thinks, angry and frustrated and confused. _I didn't fuck up_. The words don't ring true, though, and all she can hear is her father's chiding voice chanting _Temper, temper_. She begins to desperately hope that something will cross her path that she can take her anger out on, a rat or a lingering darkspawn that they missed.

Nothing does.

* * *

The next morning, she's still angry. Angry at Alistair, angry at herself, angry at Zevran for finally taking the first real step towards fucking her senseless on a night when she would have preferred to have been bathing in blood. She burns the porridge and dumps it on Morrigan's lap when the teasing starts. She breaks camp first, and is a good fifteen minutes ahead of the rest of them as they begin the walk northeast towards Denerim. Her companions keep their distance. Morrigan leaves Alistair alone, stymied by the still furious expression on his face.

Zevran catches her gaze when they break for lunch, but doesn't approach, doesn't comment on her eyes like he usually does. It makes her stomach tighten, and she makes herself remember all the times they've flirted before in an attempt to ignore how thoroughly she seems to have ruined things. She remembers how _deadly sex goddess_ had sent an almost unwelcome jolt through her, remembers comments on her lovely eyes, remembers the time in the Brecilian forest, so soon after meeting him, when he plucked a red fruit from a tree and showed her how to take it apart and eat the glittering, shiny, juice-filled seeds inside, their hands and lips stained and laughter in the air. Alistair had been angry then, too. He didn't trust Zevran, and pointed out that the fruit could very well be poisonous. Morrigan had added that it was indeed poisonous, and Fynnea had just impetuously popped another seed into her mouth. She had survived drinking darkspawn blood; she could survive this. Besides, she was certain that Zevran would be true to his word.

He whispered to her later that the fruit actually _was_ poisonous... but only to shems.

It was their little secret, and when he thumbed a speck of dried purple-red juice on her cheek later that night, as they made camp in haunted ruins, she laughed at the thought of it.

Maybe they can make a detour, she thinks wistfully, and she can get another one of those fruits and share the seeds with him again, and then he'll start flirting with her again. Maybe then her temper won't have ruined _everything_, just _most_ things.

Barkspawn follows at her heels for the second half of the day's journey, seeming to tune in to the shift of her thoughts from angry to morose. Crashing is always the worst part. When she's fired up and her blood is racing, she can be furious and still be on top of the world, screaming for joy even as blood coats every inch of her bare skin. She glories in intensity, in manic violence and fast action. But it always fades, leaving her often times with regrets and always with a numb feeling of emptiness. It's a drug, her temper. She needs to remember that. What happens when you overdose on lyrium, again...?

* * *

They somehow manage nearly the whole day without running into bandits or darkspawn or wolves and traps where the sign is on the _opposite side of where it needs to be_, and the small skirmish that does erupt at sunset is easily handled. No emissaries to make them seize and dance, and Fynnea is glad for it. Straight-forward combat is the best for tired frustration. She's not sure that she could handle a long, tricky battle just now.

They set up camp another mile down the road, maybe a hundred yards from the path, hidden behind a line of trees but not so far into the surrounding woods as to be completely isolated and vulnerable. Leliana takes over tending the fire and cooking dinner, and Fynnea sinks down to the ground with a soft groan. The old anger has left her tense while the new crash has left her miserable. She's not sure that she can stand up again, and she stays quiet as she eats the stew that Leliana passes to her. She gives half of it to Barkspawn, who has settled at her side and whines every so often when she stops petting his head.

Alistair is sitting by Wynne, away from the fire, and he doesn't seem to be glaring at her quite as much as he was the night before. The long walk seems to have cooled his temper, and she envies him that he doesn't seem miserable, just less angry and more normal. She ends up glaring at him, and when he sees it he throws up his hands, turning resolutely so that his back is to her.

And Zevran- Zevran is still keeping his distance. He is currently baiting Sten, who is swatting at him as if the Antivan Crow were a horsefly. He doesn't seem particularly angry or sad. Fynnea thinks maybe he's just keeping his distance. Maybe he's giving her time to _cool off_, and the thought sends a familiar, if weak, jolt of irritation through her.

She _hates_ being told to cool off.

But then exhaustion descends again, reminding her that she's the one who thought the words, not Zevran. She settles her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands, and she watches him as he finally gives up on the imposing Qunari (who must be more than twice his weight) and moves back over to the fire, pausing to lean down and whisper something in Leliana's ear that makes her stare up at him for a moment before waving him away with a laugh. Business as usual. Fynnea is just sitting on the outside, this time. Like a small child being given a time out, exiled from a circle of playmates because she had knocked down her poor cousin Soris and rolled him down a flight of stairs because he'd told her that her mother's boots were _far_ too large for her.

Her cheeks burn at the memory, and she pushes it aside.

Zevran has retreated now to stand by his tent, chin tilted up as he gazes at the stars, so numerous and bright this far outside of a settlement. The skies above Denerim are not half so bright, with Redcliffe's falling somewhere in between. Her eyes follow the line of his throat, then drop down to linger on the hard curves of his lower thighs, visible where the skirt of his leather armor ends. She had a chance at seeing all of those legs, she thinks, sullenly. If this whole mess hadn't occurred, she would've given in to his flirtations and just enjoyed the ride. If she had just kept her tongue...

The numbness is almost paralyzing, but Fynnea is, if nothing else, indomitable. She fights it, because even numbness can anger her and that fight keeps her from retreating to her tent for the rest of the night.

Instead, she pushes to her feet and approaches Zevran, intent on fixing whatever it was that she'd broken the night before. Ten feet away, she nearly stumbles as her stomach fills with unexpected butterflies that have found their way in through her post-anger crash. Her fear is embarrassing, so she pushes through it, fights if off, and manages a little smile when he looks over at her and quirks a brow. She is on top of the beast that is her temper. She can handle this.

"Sorry about last night," Fynnea says, awkwardly, shifting her weight a little. All of her planned forcefulness and gruffness is replaced instead by nervous trembling and unpracticed, unfamiliar apologies. "It was just- it was a bad day."

Zevran looks skyward a moment more before dropping his chin and looking at her, eyes dancing over her face, lingering on her lips. He spreads his hands, smiling softly as his eyes track upwards again. "I misinterpreted your needs."

"Only a little." She pushes her chin-length, blood colored hair back behind one delicately pointed ear and worries at her lower lip a moment before clearing her throat. She doesn't know how to get him flirting with her again, but she does know where they left off the night before. "... So, ah. Back to my tent, then?"

There is silence between them, and just as her mind starts supplying colorful curses to fill it and she almost loses her perch atop her temper, Zevran smiles, adjusting and adapting as he is so good at doing. "Oh, is there... something that needs assassinating?" He _purrs_ the words and they go straight to her gut where the embers she's almost given up on immediately jump to a fever pitch. She flushes, and he notices it, advancing another step.

"I- forgot about that part," she mutters sheepishly, realizing that this is dangerous. Alistair's warnings echo in her ears. But Zevran teases everybody, and she realizes after a moment that he's making a joke. Oh, but this _will_ be fun, she reassures herself. Fun and dangerous and perfect, but definitely dangerous, and-

"Well, my Warden, if I am going to attempt to... assassinate you tonight, we should do it properly."

"Properly?" She had planned on being in charge, on setting the terms of this encounter, but Maker's breath, she doesn't know what she's doing anymore. She thought she knew when she had blurted out that invitation to her tent, but she has no experience with his game, and this seems so much... _heavier_ and _thicker_ than his playful comments about rope. So much like jumping into Lake Calenhad feet-first without knowing how deep the water goes, ignoring the sign that warns swimmers away at all costs.

"Yes. Hand to hand, no weapons, no armor, just..." The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles and he closes the last distance between them to bend and whisper in her ear, "the sweat of our bodies between us. How does that sound, my Warden?"

Fynnea hears herself letting out a low, excited noise that fast turns into a moan the moment his lips touch hers.

* * *

He doesn't laugh at her when she confesses, in the dark of her tent with his clothes almost all off and hers gone entirely, through her burning cheeks and unsteady pride, that she's never done this before. He simply comments that this must surely be some sort of crime, and then adds that he'll take care of her. That she can _trust_him.

He's the last person in Thedas (or, she amends, at least in this campsite) she should trust, and yet she _does_ trust him. Their reality _makes_ her trust him, and his lips at her nipple make her trust him more.

"My Warden," he murmurs against her skin, nipping and sucking and licking and purring as she arches beneath him. His hands slide across her skin easily, touching along scars and fresher wounds, making her jerk and whimper. "My Warden, I forgive you everything that happened last night."

"I got angry-" she whispers, the words getting cut off in a gasp as one finger slides between her legs, testing and teasing. Fynnea squirms again, and Zevran kisses her lips, runs his tongue along hers, distracts her enough that she stops jerking away in surprise at how _good_ and _strange_ his touch feels. She has turned so skittish, so pliant under his touch that it scares her a little, because she's always the dominant fighter, but she's wanted some form of this heat since she stared down at his bound form that day, in between the Tower and the waiting forest, and she doesn't quite care what form it takes.

"You always get angry," he agrees, accent a little thicker now, voice a little huskier. "I like that about you, my Warden. I like a great many things about you." Another finger joins the first and they slide over her clit, making her whimper again. "Like that noise. I liked that noise. Will you make more of them?"

"More," she exhales, and it's unclear even to her if it's a promise or a plea. He takes it as both, moving down her body, trailing kisses, so that he can press her thighs apart, run his thumbs between her inner lips and spread her. He looks up at her along the length of her wiry body, and she has to suppress a louder moan when she meets his gaze. Her head falls back onto her pillow as he presses a kiss to her, sliding a long, dextrous finger inside. The sensation makes her keen, her toes curling, her muscles tensing, and he laughs against her warmth.

He uses his fingers to open her, to feel inside of her and draw her out in cries and jerks and whimpers of his name. He alternates between speaking to her low and soft, and teasing her with his tongue.

"Maker's breath-" Fynnea whimpers, hips bucking, but he holds her down with one hand, gentle pressure on the crest of her hip.

"No moving," he chides, sliding up along her body to press kisses to her belly, to her breasts, and finally to her lips again, his fingers still curling inside of her. "Or I shall have to _keep_ you still, yes? But that's not so bad." She can feel him hard against her thigh, but he makes no move to strip away his smallclothes. It's just his fingers, three thrusting now, and she moans his name. He whispers _Warden_ back to her, and she arches, body hard and straining against his.

"Why aren't you-" she gasps against his cheek as he presses kisses over to her ear. He nips at the lobe, humming inquisitively. "Why aren't you _inside_ me?"

"But I am!" His fingers curl as he chuckles. The sound wraps itself around her brain, sinking deep and burning hot.

"No, I mean- you _know_ what I mean!" Fynnea whines, exasperated and confused and feeling far too good to keep stringing words together.

He sits up a little, smiling down at her. "Later, my Warden. Tonight, you receive a true Antivan massage, as I promised." And then he joins her in wordless, soft sounds, fingers quickening, stroking and curving in just the right way to make her squirm and gasp and bite at his lips. She tries to move him, but she doesn't know where too, and the attempt fails quickly. Writhing beneath him is more than good enough.

She nearly screams when she comes, head thrown back and blood boiling. It feels so _good_ and there's a part of it, the part where her blood races, that's exhilarating and so much like and also unlike the feeling she gets when her swords hit flesh.

But when she comes down from this, she has no regrets.

* * *

**AN: ** _Temper, Temper_ is technically all finished, but I'll be posting a chapter about once a week to give me time to do final revisions. :)


	2. Haven

**Chapter Warnings**: Vomiting.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

"You're not _actually_ considering this," Alistair mutters close to her ear so that Kolgrim can't catch the words. "You're not _actually_ thinking about defiling the Ashes of _Andraste_ because he's being secretive about something you might want." His anger towards her has softened since Redcliffe, during the journey to Denerim, then to Lake Calenhad, then _back_ to Denerim, and finally up this mountain, but it seems to be easily called back. At least he's talking to her again, even if his tone is less than congenial. They've gained some sort of tense understanding since she insisted they stop in to meet Goldanna and Fynnea defended Alistair against the woman's verbal attacks, feeling guilty that she had fucked up even _this_ attempt at reconciliation. Somehow, she hadn't fucked up entirely, or at least Alistair didn't blame her for all of it. In fact, he had seemed touched that she had remembered, despite their mutual anger.

Of course, she's always only a few steps to the left of disappointing or frustrating or annoying him again. Now, on top of a mountain, she turns to look at him with an intent and hopeful expression and he glares, and she turns to look at Wynne and _she_ glares, and she finally looks at Zevran, and he shrugs and smiles.

Maker's breath, but he makes her want to do stupid things (not that she needs much help with the motivation). But Wynne seems distressingly devout and Fynnea now relies on her to fix her broken body after battles where the little elf flings herself into the middle without a thought for how she's going to get out, so really, defiling the Ashes isn't an option.

But she's still curious.

"What sort of power?" she asks, slowly, looking up at Kolgrim through her lashes and wondering if her _beautiful elven charms_ work when she's in splint armor and soaked in blood and drake guts.

"You have seen how Andraste's followers fight!" He's still using that exhortative cry, and it's getting on her nerves. She really wants to run him through, wants to stab both of her blades into his stomach and rip outwards, but then she'll _never_ know what he's hiding.

She steps a little closer, her swords remaining sheathed on her back. "They do fight very well, indeed." She lets him tower above her; it likely makes him feel less intimidated by the woman who has cut through all of his cult's defenses and murdered full-grown drakes in their dens. Fynnea _has_ marked the fighting style these mountain people use, the way they seem to become demons in battle, draw in energy from their fallen comrades. It's her sort of combat. She wants to know so badly how they do it.

A thought comes to her, and she leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "Does it have something to do with blood?"

He looks startled and backpedals away from her, swallowing and raising his axe between them. "You sly- we shall never give over Andraste's secrets to you!" And she _knows_ she's right. Blood- it made her a Grey Warden, and it can make men into- what had one of the leaders shouted? _Reavers, to arms_! Blood will make her a Reaver, too.

And given how Kolgrim can think of nothing else but his beloved Andraste-

"Hm, 'Andraste's blood'?" she tries, and his enraged gurgle and the way he suddenly rushes towards her seals it.

There, no need to defile the Ashes at all, and before she pitches full into battle, she grins back at her companions.

* * *

"We just-" Alistair tries, panting and attempting to lever himself up from the uneven, broken, sulfurous ground, "we just _killed_ a _dragon_?"

"I believe so, yes," Zevran responds, having to shout for his voice to carry through the bitter wind. "Yes, yes, that does appear to be a dragon. And it does appear to be dead. Wynne? I am sure a beautiful older woman such as yourself has- experience with serpents. What say you?"

Wynne rolls her eyes, leaning on her staff. "It is a high dragon, and it is dead," she finally concedes. "Fynnea-"

Fynnea is rummaging through Wynne's pack and comes out with a few vials, smiling cheerfully before heading over to the dragon's corpse. She had, of course, gloried in the battle, thrived on running between scaled legs, dodging fiery blasts, rolled and struck and laughed and goaded even though _Alistair_ was supposed to be the one to keep the beast's attention fixed. She'd fallen twice, but Wynne brought her back each time. After all, as self-destructive as Fynnea can be (and as good at starting trouble as she is), they rely heavily on her thrill to violence to see them through the worst battles.

Now that same battle lust, which could easily have become anger or cruelty, is channeled into good cheer. "Zevran, you harvest some scales, Wade might like them. Though I think we should get him to do his thing with the drake scales we got earlier..." Fynnea shook her head, focusing again with a broad smile. "_I,_ meanwhile, am going to test my theory about Kolgrim's men."

"We have Ashes to retrieve," Alistair pointed out. "You know, bits of burnt saint, far more fancy and rare than dragon's blood? And besides, this thing will be here when we get out."

"But the blood won't be fresh," Fynnea replies as she crouches at the beast's neck and punctures another hole. The blood dribbles slowly, and she frowns at it. "Should've taken it as it was dying. This might not even be fresh enough."

"It might not even _work_," Alistair counters, finally back up on his feet. "Besides, what if it makes you go crazy? Those cultists, they seemed pretty loony. I bet it's from drinking dragon blood, like- like darkspawn blood?"

"That's my point!" Fynnea stands triumphantly with two filled vials. Nothing can stop her when she feels like this, driven and mighty and beautiful, standing _quite literally_ on the top of a mountain with a dead dragon at her feet.

Alistair sighs and watches, giving up on any hope of stopping her. "If you're planning on drinking it, why not just... just put your mouth up to its flank, or something?"

"I'm not _barbaric, _Alistair!" She rolls her eyes, then grins at the other three. "Alright, anybody up for doing this with me?"

"Absolutely not."

"My Warden, I do not think I could fight like that - I've too much speed, not enough strength, yes?"

"I am not exposing myself to whatever dangers are in those vials."

"Fine," Fynnea says, shrugging. She's confidant in her deductions and eager to rub her success in their faces when she inevitably rises even stronger than before. Her expression glows as she grins and tosses her hair out of her eyes. "Your loss. Bottoms up!"

And then, impulsive and confident as always, she tips both vials into her mouth at once, swallows, grins at her comrades, and promptly collapses to the ground.

* * *

The first thing she knows when she comes to is vomiting, hot bile tinged with a taste of copper in her mouth, her stomach contracting and her fists clenched in the dirt beneath her. She smells scented oil and leather and feels warm hands on her back - _Zevran_. He strokes her spine, and it eases some of the terrible pain and nausea. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, shivering, and then looks up.

Alistair looks angry again, Wynne looks exasperated and a little worried, and Zevran- is still behind her, so she can't tell, but he feels good. She manages a weak smile.

And then she thinks a moment and rolls her shoulders and stands. "Hm. Not bad."

"You are never allowed to go around drinking blood _again_," Alistair says, gesturing to the mess now at her feet. "What if you had _died_, Fynnea? The deathly sort of die, the kind you don't just get back up from? The kind that Wynne can't fix?"

"I _always_ get back up," Fynnea responds, though her legs are trembling again. She feels... stronger, though. More durable, and with a renewed lust for carnage. That lust hovers in the background, thankfully, because there aren't many people around her to kill and she doesn't think Alistair would appreciate a good fast spar right now. "I think it worked, at any rate."

Alistair just stares at her while she beams, and then looks away as she bends double and vomits again.

"My Warden, I do think we should have waited to do your experiment. I'm not sure that you can make it through this... Gauntlet we are called upon to defeat. And while I am a great fan of heaving bosoms, this is not _quite_ what I had in mind." Zevran is now at her side, taking her chin in hand and tilting her face this way and that, looking at her eyes and the color of her cheeks.

"Of course I can make it." Fynnea waves a hand, and the other elf catches it, pulls her back to full standing, and then holds her gaze. She flushes.

"... Of course you can," he agrees after a moment, and Alistair groans and moves past them, all clanking metal. Alistair still refuses to trust Zevran, trusts him even _less _now that he and the others are treated almost nightly to the dulcet tones of Zevran wrenching pleasure from their high-strung commander. (How had he put it when he'd pulled Fynnea aside to voice his concerns? Something like "He's an _assassin_ and you're letting him _stick things in you_ and really, he could kill you anytime he wants because when he makes those eyes at you, you turn into... into... I don't even want to _know_ what you turn into." Except with a lot more stammering and a lot more anger and a lingering ounce of jealousy.) As a point of honor, Alistair has been disagreeing with Zevran on every topic. But now he simply gestures for them to follow, shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

"We kill a _dragon_," she can hear him muttering, "and the first thing she does is _drink its blood_. Maker, why did I ever think she made sense?"

* * *

She makes it, of course.

She can't say that she has a revelation when she passes all-but-naked through the flames and approaches the real Andraste's ashes. In fact, she's more in agreement with Zevran that the _urn_ is quite nice, but the contents, less than interesting. Wynne and Alistair stare in awe, though, until she sighs and pushes past them to scoop up some of the fabled mythic panacea. Her hands are shaking and she's still not feeling _good_, but at least now they can head back to camp.

Fynnea periodically has to stop and empty the very few remaining contents of her stomach on the way down the mountain. Alistair continues to point out that he _Knew This Was A Bad Idea All Along_, Wynne casts minor healing spells to patch the damage in her stomach and her throat, and Zevran stays close to her, looking... concerned? Though, she considers as she straightens up and pushes on towards the old temple, he has reason to be worried. If she dies, Alistair will probably take his head off.

On their way back through the temple, they pause to check a room they had passed by before, collecting a few useful items, and are met at the door by the last few angry looking cultists. Fynnea goes from leaning heavily against a high table to roaring into action, and Alistair looks away from the carnage as she finally fully indulges the urges newly boiling in her blood. Even sick, she moves with her usual energy and swiftness, dancing around in informally trained but effective movements, whirling and diving, swords outstretched. She seeks blood even more fervently than before, ending up coated with it as she laughs triumphantly. But when the last cultist ceases to writhe upon the floor, pinned to it by her blades, Fynnea sinks to her knees and retches again. Zevran helps her back to her feet and they continue on, exchanging hurried, terse words with Brother Genitivi and finally leaving the cult's lair.

Despite her new weakness, as they trudge through the snow back towards and through Haven she thinks that she is quite happy with her decision. At any rate, the weakness should pass. Eventually.

They finally make it into camp, and once her tent is up and her pack stowed, she drops down to sit by the fire. Zevran doesn't follow immediately, but instead brings an empty pail to her side and sits down behind her, fingers finding her shoulders and beginning to knead the sore muscles there while she wipes at the dried blood crusted on her face.

"Do you know," he muses, trying to sound detached, "if it has all been _your_ blood coming up?" There's that little bit of worry again, and it's more than a little confusing. "It has looked a bit peculiar, but I confess I didn't look at it as closely as I should have."

"Don't know," she mutters back, eyes closing, determined to just get through this bit of things. The nausea isn't always there, but it comes in waves and when it crests, she can't fight it. Right now, the sea is low. Low enough that Zevran being attached unmoving to her side is beginning to make her uneasy even as it soothes her tired body.

She opens her eyes again when Alistair starts up again with, "You're a complete and utter idiot." Alistair is sitting across the fire from her, and has apparently been telling everybody who will listen just what she did, finally settled on telling _her_ all about it. Again. "People say _I'm_ stupid, well, now I'm just going to point at _you_."

"Stop it," Wynne chides, watering down a bowl of soup for Fynnea. "She was just trying to become stronger, to fight the Blight, as we all are. You know that."

"Yes, well, _if she survives_ I'll concede the point." Alistair fidgets, frowning. "I hope she survives. Fynnea, I hope you survive."

"I heard you," the elf Warden says, shaking her head and then immediately regretting it. She takes the bowl from Wynne and sips at the thin broth carefully. "I'll survive. I always have so far."

"There is _so_ much wrong with that statement," Alistair complains, but then leaves it be, except for the soft mutters of _dragon_ and _blood_ and _Andraste_ as he tries to put together everything that happened. Zevran chuckles and leans lightly against her.

* * *

He invites himself back to her tent.

She protests, pointing out hurriedly that this is obviously _not_ a good time, and why is he even _interested_ when she tastes and smells like sweat, blood, and bile? but he waves it off. He lifts the so-far unused pail, then helps her to her tent. He's set out her bedroll - and his, she notices - and has a pail right by her small, hard pillow. He makes her stand just outside the tent as he releases her from her armor with his quick, nimble fingers, and she watches with confusion and trepidation.

"What," she says, softly, when he kneels before her to help with her greaves, "are you _doing_?"

He just grins up at her.

They've been growing closer since Redcliffe. They walk together, they laugh together, and they tell each other stories. He's told her of his adventures with the Crows and in bed, and she's only felt a twinge of- not jealousy, but envy- once. He'd told her about the woman, Rinna, one night in Denerim. She'd been upset about the Alienage gates being closed, but he hadn't known that. She hadn't mentioned it. She'd been, instead, stalking the market long after the stalls had shut down for the night, refusing to come back to their camp outside the city walls.

He'd slipped up beside her, and she'd nearly taken his head off. He'd just smiled and gestured for her to follow, and he'd taken her on a meandering path that led out of the city without her even realizing it. And along the way, he'd told her of his last mission, and confessed that he'd hoped, at first, that she would kill him. He'd added with a grin that he was very glad things had worked out differently. She'd been completely distracted. Tonight, though, his distractions are pointedly not working, and the only thing that keeps her from kicking him (lightly! and only enough to get his attention!) is the fact that she keeps fighting the urge to bend double with the pain in her stomach.

He doesn't speak until he has her in her smallclothes and he makes her settle onto her bedroll. As he pulls his own armor free, he says, "Tonight, you shall be attended to by Nurse Zevran. You may thank me in coin or kisses."

She groans. "I told you, I'm not in the mood-"

"I know," he cuts her off, sitting down beside her once he's down to his smalls and the skirt of his armor. He touches her upper arm lightly. "I don't demand payment in advance. In _fact_, I am such a good doctor that I shall wait until you are completely recovered."

"I don't need a healer," she mumbles, still uncertain at this gentle care of his. "_Why_?"

He laughs, the sound soothing. "Because, my Warden, I do not like seeing you this ill. Just as I didn't like seeing you so angry and removed after that fight with Alistair, after Redcliffe."

Fynnea shoots him a Look. "You kept your distance when we were fighting."

"Only because I thought it was what you wanted."

"It... it was, for a while," she confesses, after a moment, and he laughs again.

"See! Zevran Arainai is not _entirely_ a fool." He settles down on his bedroll and pulls her into his arms. His fingers stroke her stomach and her arms, and she shivers and closes her eyes. "And as much," he murmurs after a moment, "as I would have liked to watch Leliana keeping you company tonight, she did not volunteer, and you need _somebody_ to make sure you do not choke on your own vomit. That is not the most beautiful way to go."

Fynnea makes an annoyed sound, trying to draw away, but he just chuckles and keeps her close, kissing at her jaw.

"I," he adds, "am nothing but attentive to my lovers."

"So, part of the bargain of getting you in my tent whenever I like is that I have to let you play nursemaid when I get the sniffles?"

"And you have to let me strip you bare to do it," he responds with good cheer. "And when you can't sleep, you must let me regale you with stories of Antiva."

That sparks a memory. "Oh!"

He chuckles. "There will be many _Ohs_ in these tales, y-"

"No, no, I-" and she worms her way out of his arms. He lets her, this time, and watches as she sits up and reaches up for her pack. "I found something. In Haven, when we were looking around. On the way up." A wave of nausea crashes over her, but she fights it down. As her fingers close on soft leather, she grins and pulls out her prize, holding it out to Zevran proudly.

He stares at the boots for a moment before his eyes shoot up to her eyes. "I know that smell," he says, and his voice is- soft? It loses the flirtatious, teasing edge for just a moment.

Fynnea can't help but smile.

"These are _Antivan_ boots," he continues, taking them from her gingerly.

"You should try them on," she points out.

"No, no, I shall- enjoy them as they are, for now. I can try them on in the morning, yes?" He can't seem to decide if he should look at her or the leather, and Fynnea feels a slight blush cover her cheeks and shoulders. "After, of course, you ravish me. I fully expect ravishings in the morning."

Every so often, she has to remind herself that this isn't a _relationship_, that this is more an arrangement and a friendship, but she's been good with having no expectations. It's more that her heart flutters and her stomach tightens sometimes when he looks at her a particular way, or when she remembers how it felt for him to thumb dried juice from her cheek. And since her experiment with the dragon blood, he's been attentive, and it's starting to bring out the same nervous, happy response.

She pushes past it, just like she pushes past the nausea.

"Of course. You like them?"

"I _love_ them," he agrees, another laugh edging out past his smile. "Now, if only you could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder, and a corrupt politician, I'd really feel like I was home!"

Fynnea is laughing with him until she begins to cough, then retch. The pail that Zevran brought in with them is on the other end of the tent, so she instead rips the tent flap open and stumbles outside. Zevran drops his boots and follows her, managing to get to her side and hold her hair back just before she begins bringing up more blood. His touch is gentle and his free hand strokes her back as she convulses, barely supporting herself.

The campsite is otherwise quiet, the others mostly having retired, but Alistair is on watch and watching _them_ and Barkspawn is whining. Zevran murmurs soft sounds to her, and when she finally comes to a shuddering halt, her face streaked with hot, salty tears and her throat raw, he sits back on his heels and pulls her into his arms.

Cradling her to his chest, he peers past her, and smiles a little. "My Warden," he murmurs, "I do not think your blood is purple with a faint green sheen."

She makes a small, wordless sound of confusion.

"I consider myself a bit of an expert on the subject of blood, and I can recognize yours quite well. This? Is not it. However, I think I can also now recognize the blood of _Andraste_. After all, your armor is coated with it."

She turns a little to look up at him, and he grins.

"There is quite a bit of dragon blood there, my Warden. I think that perhaps once you've purged it all from your system, you'll be just fine."

There's another male voice sighing in relief, and Fynnea looks over to find Alistair standing uneasily nearby, closer than he was when she rushed from her tent. "Thank the Maker," he says, softly, then slowly grows pink as his anxiety fades and he notices - _really_ notices - their lack of clothing. He coughs, averting his gaze. "Er. I- Zevran. Thanks... thanks for looking after her."

Fynnea's about to growl out that she doesn't _need_ looking after, but Zevran cuts her off, hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. "It was no trouble at all. I enjoy my Warden-" _my,_ not _our_ as he usually says to other people, and her heart is in her throat and she couldn't make a sound even if his hand wasn't been there- "writhing and sweating."

Alistair is bright, bright red, though it's less than noticeable in the dim dying firelight. "Er."

Zevran beams.

"I'm just," Alistair manages, "going to go. Over there. Yes. Um. Keep up- keep up the good work. And, er. Keep on. Enjoying. ... Oh _Maker_," and he's retreated back to the fire, where Barkspawn still watches, now with an amused cant of his head.

Fynnea taps Zevran's hand and he uncurls his fingers from around her jaw, albeit slowly.

"How do you feel?" he murmurs, soft and low and sweet in her ear.

"Mmm." She can't help but purr. But he needs an answer, so she swallows and _focuses_ and that lingering nausea is- gone. "Much better."

"Good!" Fynnea wants to melt into that happy noise, and she blames it on how she's tired and ready to just fall over and _sleep_ for days. "Then we shall get you some water to clear your mouth, and then bed! Unless..." His fingers slide along her jaw, then dance across her lips, and he hums thoughtfully. "If your healer might suggest an alternative to the water-"

"_No_," and it's so hard to turn him down, hard enough that she has to laugh to manage the word. But she's _tired_, and he can tell. He lets her go with no more teasing, pulling her to her feet and helping her to the bucket of boiled water that sits by the campfire. Alistair has retreated to the perimeter of the camp, and so it's only Barkspawn that watches them, tail stump wagging. Fynnea smiles at her mabari and motions to Zevran with her head. He barks, tail wagging a little harder.

"Shhh!" she whispers, and Barkspawn just _grins_, and she's grinning back because _Barkspawn trusts and likes Zevran_ and that feels so good.

The water does too, when Zevran, oblivious to this little exchange, lifts a ladle of it to her lips and she drinks greedily.

When they are back in her tent, he settles her down like he did before, sheds the last of his clothes, and slides in beside her. He drapes an arm over her, lazily.

"Thank you," Fynnea murmurs, softly.

He smiles against her shoulder. "It was no problem. No problem at all. And I have a reward to look forward to, yes?"

She laughs and nods, snuggling back against him. "Many, many rewards."

"Oh, was I that good a nursemaid?" he teases, and then, when she shakes her head, says with mock-affront, "_No_?"

She looks over her shoulder at him. "You were wonderful. So wonderful that I think Alistair might _trust_ you now."

"_Me_?" He quirks a brow. "The _assassin_? The dastardly _Antivan_ who slid in and stole his Warden from him?" He laughs while she rolls her eyes. "Somehow, lovely one, I doubt that. I doubt that a great deal. No, I believe our companions will _never_ trust me, on principle. I do not mind- I understand it."

"I think he trusts you more than he did," she maintains, yawning. "And _Barkspawn_ likes you."

"I still do not quite believe you named your mabari _that_." He kisses her slowly before nudging her back to lying down. "But. We can talk in the morning. I must earn my keep, and so _you_ must go to sleep."

"Are you ordering me?"

"Mmm, if you would like that, then yes. Yes, my Warden, _go to sleep_."

She's blushing and he's laughing gently as sleep reaches out fast to take her. Her last thought has something to do with how _beautiful_ his voice sounds when he's taking command.


	3. Orzammar

**Chapter warnings: **Smut with BDSM flavors: bondage, spanking.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization and Mirya. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

Fynnea can't honestly say whether she's grateful to be back in Orzammar or not.

Aeducan Thaig lies behind them now, Lady Dace's father dutifully rescued, and while Orzammar smells far less of darkspawn and deepstalker, it is static and heavy and uncomfortable. She's retreated into the halls of Bhelen's palace; it's easier to pretend that she's just in a building that way. Out on the streets, she feels the oppressive crush of the stone above far more than she did down in the Deep Roads. The Deep Roads are meant to be unnerving and frightening; Orzammar is not. And so, Orzammar _is_.

She had expected Zevran to wander off on a 'fact-finding mission' to Tapster's Tavern, but he's followed her around the palace. When she asks what he wants, he responds,

"Fact finding. You said you wished to know more about this Prince Bhelen, yes? Come." He beckons and she follows, ignoring the urge to ask why he's _here_, with _her_, when there are women and men and drink about. She settles for feeling honored, and hopes that he isn't here out of a sense of obligation.

He leads her down into the depths of the palace, chattering about everything and nothing. She's horrible at small talk, but somehow keeps up enough to let him carry on. The guards ignore them, which, as he beckons her into a small room off a side hallway, she realizes is likely intentional. He shuts the door behind him.

Zevran hums thoughtfully. "Who do you think we should pluck from the hallways, my Warden? A guard would be dangerous, but possibly high return. A serving girl easier, but much trickier to pressure. If the guard lashes out, we can kill him and paint him as a Harrowmont supporter. A serving girl might be harder."

Fynnea stares blankly a moment, then shifts uneasily. "I have no clue."

"But if we are to play at politics, you _must_!"

"I don't _want_ to play at politics," she grumbles. "I want to barrel my way through them and shove Bhelen on the throne and get it over with. Seems easier."

"Perhaps. But curiosity, ah, it must be satisfied, or it begins to gnaw terribly... yes?" He winks and she flushes at the memory of her need to know about his tattoos. "So. We shall question."

"We can't just... listen? To what people say? I mean, the people in the streets-"

"Are the people in the streets. The ones who say bad things are those who are against him- but if we can make those _loyal_ to him speak, ah, _then_ we shall find truths. Or, at least as close to truths as politics ever gets. So, who shall we take, my Warden?"

Fynnea growls, rubbing at her temples with a blood splattered gauntlet. "If I make this decision," she says, slowly, thinking, "can I ask a favor of you in return?" A thought has been teasing at the back of her brain since Haven, maybe before.

He chuckles. "This is already a favor for you, but yes. You may ask of me anything."

"Right. Well, then." She purses her lips and closes her eyes. It's several minutes of arduous planning and conjecture before she finally answers, "Find a serving girl. I'll be _gentle_."

"As you wish." He smiles and bows slightly, then slips from the room. She leans against the wall to wait.

He returns after perhaps ten minutes, and she can hear his laughter and that of a young woman's approaching down the hall. It sets her teeth on edge before she can quash that feeling of jealousy. She doesn't mind his flirting with the rest of the team, ignores it because it's none of her business (and because he doesn't flirt with her the same way as he flirts with them, and it feels special), but his _laughter_ sounds so sweet and genuine.

She reminds herself that this is a job, and she has no right to be jealous or angry when she _told_ him to do this.

The door opens and he ushers the girl inside with a leer and a grin, shutting the door just before the dwarven woman's eyes lock onto Fynnea's slight form, clad in dark armor covered in dried blood.

The woman pales, and turns to leave, but Zevran leans against the door and shakes his head, that smile still there. She screams, but Fynnea has anticipated it (she knows how fearsome she looks, has seen Alistair falter in battle from the look of fury on her face) and clamps her gauntleted hand over the dwarf's mouth.

"Shhh," Zevran hushes, holding a finger up to his lips. "We only wish to talk, have no fear. A few words exchanged, and then we'll set you free, yes? So please, calm. Quiet."

And somehow, this manages to silence their captive. Fynnea withdraws only after a few tens of heartbeats pass without struggle.

Zevran has the girl's gaze locked into his. "Mirya, have you worked here long, my dear?" His voice is still amiable, gentle, as if he truly cares. He's a skilled actor.

"Three years," she manages, soft and quiet.

"So, you have known Prince Bhelen a long time then, yes?"

Mirya shifts, digging her toe against the stone floor. Fynnea leans against the far wall, watching the two of them, arms crossed over her chest. "_Know_ is a strong word-"

"You have seen him, then. And you have heard things?" He shakes his head slightly as she recoils. "No, no. I am no spy sent by Bhelen to test the loyalty of his servants. Nothing you say leaves this room. Correct, Warden?"

Fynnea grunts, then nods. Sure.

Zevran looks away from the woman, fingers toying with the metal rounds on his belt. Mirya is still hesitating, and Fynnea watches as he carefully withdraws the small stiletto he keeps on his belt and begins to twirl it, as if it were a plaything.

Mirya goes stiff, and Fynnea sighs. "Oh, Andraste's _blood_-" Maker damn him, he's grinning at the curse- "you're getting us _nowhere_." She can't put up with this _dance_ of his, and Mirya is clearly wondering now if _she_ will leave this room. This is a mess, and Fynnea roughly grabs hold of Mirya's shoulder. The girl squeaks as the elf spins her around, glares down at her. "We're not going to kill you, we're not going to _tell_ on you, and the faster you tell us about your employer, the faster we get out of your life. Got it?" The words are growled harsh and low, and Mirya lets out a soft sob.

"_Stop crying!_" Fynnea can't handle this, and wishes suddenly that she'd called for a guard, instead. It'd be so much _easier_ to shake her, to throw her to the ground, to grind the answers out of her with the heel of her boot. But instead, she just holds the serving girl's shoulders hard.

And Zevran is just _standing_ there.

Fynnea's blood roars in her ears, but soon it quiets enough that she can hear Mirya babbling, spilling out half-remembered conversations and late night unplanned scenes, falling over herself to tell Fynnea everything, _anything_, to get her to let go.

When she runs herself dry, Fynnea releases her, muttering under her breath and turning away.

She can hear Zevran hushing the crying Mirya. His voice is soft and gentle, and he's apologizing, perhaps drawing her to his chest, certainly doting upon her. He vilifies himself for drawing his stiletto, explains it as an old habit and a mistake, and Mirya seems to _believe_ him, the stark contrast between Fynnea and Zevran working to make Mirya quiet and listen to him.

He teases out a last few details from her, then sends her on her way.

"Well, our Prince Bhelen, for all of his ability to _do_, is quite the bastard, yes? Just like being home in Antiva!" He grins at her.

"You planned that, didn't you," Fynnea mutters after a long, silent stretch between them.

"It was a distinct possibility, yes. It had occurred to me."

"And if I _hadn't_ lost my temper?"

"I would have held my blade to her throat and slid the words from her that way. It would have been harder, though. And she would have been more likely to tell. As it is, I believe she will remain silent. She fears you and has been soothed by me. A good play, I think." His grin remains a moment more before he shakes his head. "I am sorry, my Warden, if that bothered you."

"It would have been more satisfying to interrogate a guard. At least then I could have punched him."

"This is true," he concedes, then beckons her with a nod of his head to follow him back into the hall. She does, and he falls into step at her right and slightly behind her.

They pass by guards who seem oblivious, and once they draw near their quarters, Fynnea sighs in relief.

Zevran, who has once again been bantering about the weather and how sad it is that there _is none_ in Orzammar, smoothly transitions into a, "Do you need a way to work out that frustration, my Warden?"

"An Antivan massage?" she scoffs, and he laughs, the sound relaxing some of the tightened muscles in her shoulders.

"I believe you _did_ ask a favor of me?"

It borders on incomprehensible to her that Zevran might have been turned on by her anger at Myria, but his eyes are boring into her and he's standing closer than he needs to, closer even than he usually stands. "Yes," she says, mind piecing her old thoughts back together. As she turns over the idea, it changes form just enough and becomes what she needs it to be. "I want you," she begins, slow and nervous but with building excitement, "to tie me up."

He stares at her a moment. She's unsure if he's surprised or displeased, even when he murmurs, "Oh?"

"Er. Y-yes."

Maker damn her, but her resolve and confidence always falls apart in front of him.

"That is. If you'd like that. I just- was thinking back to that one time, on the road to Denerim, when you mentioned tying up in various contexts- and I was wondering if I might enjoy it, and it seems like a good way to- to work out my frustration, because I can pull against the _rope_ instead of pushing against _you_ and-"

"My Warden," he interjects, a hand coming to rest on her waist, "perhaps we should talk about this inside."

There's a guard doing his best not to actively stare at them, and Fynnea laughs, weakly. "Right."

* * *

"So," she says uncertainly once he's retrieved a coil of rope and they've settled in her room, armor off and set aside to be cleaned and polished later.

"So," he agrees, lounging against the wall by the door. "What exactly do you want of me, my Warden?" His eyes scan over her appreciatively, linger on the suggestion of her curves beneath the loose tunic she wears beneath her armor. "What wicked things shall I do to you?"

"I- I hadn't thought much beyond the rope."

"Naked or clothed?"

"Uh?"

Zevran chuckles, softly. "I _can_ tie you up and not have my way with you, you know. Some people simply enjoy being dominated, without sex coming into it at all. You must _tell_ me what you want, or I will have to guess."

"Oh. I- that makes sense, I guess. But I meant- I meant naked, with sex involved. And rope."

He nods, gesturing for more.

"And, uh. I don't- know what else- I've never _done_ this before, or even really heard anybody but you even _mention_ it." She trails off helplessly, skin flushed and heart pounding.

"Well," he purrs, thoughtful and calm, "I can do quite a lot of things. I can tease you and refuse to let you crest. I can make you crawl on your hands and knees and beg. I can punish you for being a naughty little Warden, yes? But first, there is one thing I require of you."

That last suggestion has sent her mind straight down between her legs, but she manages a small, "Yes?"

"If you need to stop-"

"I tell you, I know."

"You tell me with a code word," he finishes. At her confused look, he shrugs. "Who am I to know if you like pretending that I am a dasterdly knave having my way with you while you shout, 'No! Stop! Anything but this, this violation of my delicate flowering maidenhood!'" Fynnea snorts, and he grins back at her. "So, a code word, that means that I will stop immediately."

"Do I really need that? I mean- I can just yell at you to stop, you know. Or kick you."

"Things can become quite intense, my Warden, when one is bound and drawn taut. And I, as you know, am all for _intensity_."

Fynnea swallows hard, then nods. "Er. Right. Well, then. Would Weisshaupt work?"

"Indeed, my_ very_ naughty Warden," he laughs, and she can't help the little whine that works its way out of her throat. "_Shall_ I punish you? You did lose your temper today, after all..."

"You want to punish me for _that_?" A flash of irritation floods her, then fades as he shrugs.

"I _can_. I can also punish you for stealing my kills down in the Thaig. I can punish you for, hm, not wrangling enough _nugs_ before we left. I can punish you for many things, none of which have much true substance." There's a strained note to his voice when he adds, softly, "It's no fun if the punishment is real."

"No, I guess not." She runs a hand through her hair, then nods, decisive. "Well, then, I guess I _have_ been... naughty. Jumping into things without knowing what I'm getting into."

"As long as you don't mind where you've landed." He smiles and beckons her close. She answers his call.

A foot away, she frowns and asks, "Why are you being this _gentle_?"

"Gentle?" His smile doesn't move. "It is just proper form. Besides, it's in the interest of self preservation to make this pleasurable - is that what you wish to hear?"

It _is_, but there's something he's not saying, something that goes back to his attentiveness after Haven, and she's determined to push again. That's what she does - push and fight until something _breaks_. "Zevran."

"Hmm." He shrugs, leaning back against the wall again, looking up at the carved ceiling. "Quite a deal of it is that, but you are also fascinating, Fynnea. You get the blood pumping, no? Is it a crime that I'm interested in preserving the current state of affairs?"

"... No," she concedes, and her mind lingers on _fascinating_ because it feels _good_. He legitimately likes her, after a fashion. At night, in the dark, sometimes she's afraid that Barkspawn is the only person who does, and so to hear otherwise soothes something inside of her. It eases that fear of obligation on his part.

"Well, then! Weisshaupt it is, my Warden." And his easy, lascivious grin is back as he pushes away from the wall and reaches out to grip her arm and tug her against him. "How shall I punish you, hm?"

"Up to you."

"That is... not entirely safe."

"Okay, well- nothing with blades. Does that work?"

"And something that has the potential to feel good?" he suggests, and she nods in return, flush returned. He hums thoughtfully. "I think I know what you need, then. Strip for me."

Fynnea obliges, stepping away just enough to tug her tunic up over her head, then shimmy out of her loose trousers and smalls. It's the first time that she's bared herself in good lighting, and his eyes linger appreciatively over the curves and hollows revealed by the torches on the walls. He doesn't reach out to touch her, though, instead murmuring, "Over to the wall, then, to where that shield hook is. Face the stonework."

Fynnea makes a small, eager noise as she pads on cold feet over to the hook. He follows after watching the retreat of her lovely hips and muscled thighs, picking up the rope on the way. He takes her in his arms from behind, sliding fingers over taut, flushed skin from her belly, then up along her chest and arms, until he finds her wrists. Those same fingers make quick work of binding her arms, from mid-forearm to palms in tight, almost decorative loops, and of tying her onto the hook above her head. The restraints make her lean forward against the wall, resting her arms and forehead against it to hold her up.

Zevran takes a step back and hums appreciatively. "A wonderful sight," he purrs.

There's silence, but for her shaky breathing and pounding heart, until she hears the distinct, familiar sound of a sword unsheathed.

"_Zevran_-" she hisses, immediately jerking away from him and trying to free herself from the hook, straining to look back at him. Her teeth are gritted and her heart pounds with _betrayal_- until she sees the surprised look on his face.

"My apologies." He looks _sheepish_ as he holds up the wooden leather-covered sheath. "This was all I needed."

And he walks away from her and sets down the sword (his) on the other side of the room, before returning with his hands spread out. He has nothing that she can see aside from the sheath.

But he could still be planning on killing her. He has knives. He has that _stiletto_, she remembers suddenly, blood running cold.

"I don't-"

"Shhh," he murmurs, coming close enough to trace paths along and between her shoulder blades. He kisses her skin, then rests his cheek against it. Listens to her heart. "I'm not going to kill you, Fynnea," he breathes, stroking her side. The sound of her names on his lips makes her shudder. "I give you my word. We have a blood oath, yes? I will not go back on such a thing."

"Have you-" She gulps down air, shaking against him. "Have you ever- killed somebody? Like this?" _He uses sex to get close, it's a talent of his, and oh Maker I should have been more careful, Alistair will __**laugh**__ when he hears of this, I_-

"No," he says, softly. "No matter how easy it would make my job, I have never killed anybody before or during the fun moments. A last stolen moment of pleasure, and then- then, I do my job. Then, people die. But not you, my Warden. I promise you.

"And at any rate, it would be terribly cowardly of me to kill you with your arms bound," he adds with a small shrug.

"It would be terribly pragmatic."

"I am not _always_ so pragmatic - that would be _you_, my Warden." He smiles against her skin, then leans up to kiss her cheek, her ear. "I give you my word, you will only suffer minor stings at my hands. I am yours and vastly prefer it to being the Crows', yes? Why would I want to lose this? And with a great evil still to defeat! No, I would not cut your story short for all the gold and whores in Antiva."

_He's just saying that_ slinks through her mind, but she doesn't care, not with how her throat tightens and she has to look down at the floor to keep her composure to stop herself from- she's not going to _swoon_ but she certainly feels the need to sag into his arms.

"Are we good, then? Or shall we set out tonight for Weisshaupt?"

The foreign name slides over her, and she tosses it aside, shakes her head. "No, I think staying in Orzammar is- just fine."

Zevran relaxes; she can feel the coils of his muscles easing before he steps away and considers her. "Then, if you will just spread your legs a little to steady yourself?"

"What are you going to do? With- that sheathe?" she asks as she resettles herself, then gasps as she feels the metal tip of it brush cold against her folds.

"Naughty things," he replies with a grin. "Terrible, wonderful naughty things."

Another slide of metal and leather against her trembling body, and she squirms, fingers clenching against the rope.

Then the sheath is gone, and her knees tremble. She waits. She hears him move behind her, thankful that he's letting her know where he is. She's cold, shivering, exposed entirely, and it's almost too much when the first blow comes.

The stiff sheath slaps gently across her ass on the first blow, then more firmly the second. It _stings_ and she yelps, trying to retreat from him and into the wall, but by the third, still harder blow there's a thrum of pleasure mixed in, unexpected and almost unwelcome. The fourth feels like the exhilaration of battle, the fifth like power and strength. The sixth is almost unbearable as she feels her Reaver blood pound in her head and her belly, feels the throb of her skin against the unyielding leather. She cries out, the sound closer to pleasure than pain, and Zevran chuckles.

"I thought you might enjoy this," he murmurs, and the low, dark tones of the words make her moan, twitch in place. He's using the sheath again to part her, and she can feel its leather grow slippery with each touch. She bucks against it and he laughs, chiding, "Naughty, _naughty _Warden," before he pulls it away and strikes her again.

Pain in battle makes her glory in the bloodshed.

Pain in sex makes her needy and wanton and begging.

He stops after the tenth blow, a jerky, almost too painful strike. He's panting and doesn't touch her for a long moment before sliding the edge of the sheath against her one last time. Then he lets it clatter to the floor. His hands are on her, his lips, and she strains back against her bonds to try and touch every part of him. He's still in his leathers, the metal reinforcements cold and wonderful against her flushed skin. "All panting and ready for Zevran?" he murmurs against her shoulder, then nips with teeth along her collarbone. She whimpers his name, thrusts back against him, and he chuckles. "Are you sure?"

"_Please_-"

His fingers are working her, idly, and she's glad her face is pressed to the stone and her arms are held up tightly, because she thinks she might fall to her knees otherwise.

"I am not sure you've been _good_ enough, my Warden," he muses against her skin, even as she shakes and moans in his arms. "And there was that time you left me tied to that tent pole all night-"

"_You- deserved it_-"

He chuckles, nipping at her earlobe, following the long point of her ear with his tongue. She whimpers, body clenching around his fingers.

"But it was so _very_ cruel of you- you left me _wanting_, my Warden. Perhaps I shall do the same to you?"

"T-that was- _over a month ago-_"

"Two," he corrects. "But ah, I have a good memory! And practice at patient waiting, yes?"

She shivers and tenses, and he pauses, murmurs softly, "I'm not waiting to kill you, my Warden," and she relaxes in his arms, the sudden thrill of fear dissipating in the wake of his fingers still tracing lazy circles inside of her.

"Two months ago," she murmurs, helplessly, and he hums.

"Perhaps you are right. And you _did_ assist wonderfully with that serving girl. And the way you _fought_ today- you must need the satisfaction of completion, hm?"

"_Please don't leave me like this_," Fynnea begs, beyond caring how the words sound, how dependent she is on him for release.

"Very well, but only because you beg so prettily, dear Warden."

His fingers slip from her and she whimpers, eyes squeezed tightly closed, waiting for a playful kiss and his withdrawal, but he's good on his word and is quickly buried inside of her, deep and hot, and she groans his name, pushing back against his hips to fit him in deeper. He obliges, pressing at her hips to tilt them just so as he murmurs her name. He begins to move with the same slow, long thrusts he always uses, until she arches and hisses, "_Faster_-" She's needy and raw and her blood surging through her veins, eager for an outlet, demands more than slow heaviness.

He growls appreciatively and indulges her, thrusts turning steadily into slamming blows that drive her hard against her arms, perched on the wall, the only thing keeping her steady. The hook groans, taking her weight when she nearly falls, one of his hands cupping her breast, the slide of his teeth electric across the skin of her back. He's drawing loud, frantic sounds from her, sounds that are hopefully muffled by the thick stone all around them, but it's not long before she's lost in a burning, surging sea where it doesn't _matter_, all that matters is him and his intensity and the strain of ropes on her arms and the pain of her abused ass and her bruised elbows.

She screams when she comes, and her seizing up tight around him is the only reason she doesn't fall away, boneless and spent, before he follows her with a low groan of _My Warden_.

Long moments stretch out between them, and when her knees finally begin to buckle, he wraps one arm around her and begins to carefully, gently untie her. His fingers rub at her arms as he draws her back against him, working warmth back into her hands. He dotes on her the rest of the night, telling stories and giving kisses. By the time she drifts off to sleep, she feels more satisfied than she can ever remember being.

* * *

And this, just over a week later, is the most horrified she can ever remember being.

"Oh, _Maker_," Fynnea breathes, eyes wide and stomach rebelling. "What- _what __**is**__ that_?"

"Broodmother," Wynne replies.

Days in the Deep Roads haven't prepared her for this. Days of cutting down darkspawn after darkspawn, of dealing with men driven mad by the taint and old demons cut asunder, days without light or fresh air or good, sound sleep have left her raw and hardened and _still_ unprepared for _this_. This grey expanse of mottled, putrid flesh, the obscene fall of heavy breasts that leak some sort of fluid that smells like rot and fear, the writhing of tentacles that can't quite reach them. Hespith's rhymes hadn't prepared her for _this_. She'd barely listened to the words, but they come flooding back now, flesh and vomit and violation, and she nearly drops to her knees in horror and disgust.

"Nasty things, eh?" Alistair's trying to keep humor alive, but it falls flat.

Zevran's attempt doesn't fair much better. "Now _there's_ a woman who knows her assets," is barely audible, and he shakes his head, taking a deep breath. He manages a smile in her direction, though, which helps her pull herself out of her paralyzing disgust.

Since that night in Bhelen's palace, he's seemed almost skittish around her. Attentive, as always, and still always by her side, but he doesn't tease her quite as often or with as much wicked glee. She hasn't had time to push him on the subject, though. Bhelen had demanded the death of a cartel leader, and she'd obliged. And then, the Deep Roads had called, and they answered, fighting through Caridin's Cross and Ortan Thaig and the long expanse of the Dead Trenches. Humor has all but died down here, and she can barely remember a time when she preferred this thick, claustrophobic crush to the comparative gentleness of Orzammar and its clean hallways. Hallways that did _not_ pulse with flesh.

"There's no way to get around it? Or to, I don't know, cave the ceiling in on its head?"

"Dwarven tunnels are remarkably stable," Wynne sighs, leaning on her staff. "And even if there were a way around... we cannot let it live. We must put the creature out of its misery, and stop it from creating more of its kind."

"She's right. Warden's duty."

"Ugh." Fynnea takes a deep breath, then another, swallowing air and willing it to force away the bile that's threatening to slide up her throat. "Right, then. Wynne, stay on the bits of the floor that are still stone and set the room on fire. Alistair and I will close with it. Zevran- er. Do whatever it is that you do."

She still doesn't have a clear idea of how he functions in battle when he's not fighting at her side; he disappears until his blade is sticking out of somebody's chest, and then he's gone again. Alistair, of course, thinks this is all a very dangerous arrangement. He thinks that about _everything_ these days.

Zevran melts into the shadows with a low bow, and Fynnea squares her shoulders. "Well, let's do this. Whoever strikes the final blow wins a prize, yeah?" And then she's off, running headlong through the forest of tentacles erupting from below, dodging and dancing and slicing when she can, making straight for her target even as the world is engulfed in flames.

The magical inferno slides off her skin, coating her sword without heating her armor or burning her. All around her tentacles thrash and contract and wither from the heat, and the screams of the broodmother are filling the echoing cavern, obliterating all other sound. Fynnea finally reaches the mass of writhing flesh and strikes, opening up one of the pendulous breasts and spilling green, slimy tissue onto the ground beneath.

Alistair is there only a few seconds later, slamming into the broodmother's gut with all his strength and drawing another howl from its throat. It grabs at him and he rolls out of the way, struggling to stay nimble in his heavy armor. Fynnea slams her pommel against her pauldron, drawing its attention for the moment Alistair needs to regain his balance.

She can't hear or see Zevran, and fear begins to creep up her spine that he's _left_, that he's judged this one _too dangerous_, but then there's the now familiar screech of an injured hurlock right behind her and a flash of leather and bronze skin.

"Oh _great_," Alistair grunts in a short reprieve, the broodmother shaking under electric assault, "she's called her _kids_."

From that moment forward, the battle becomes a long, painful blur. She's shouting orders at the top of her lungs, trying to be heard over the screeches of darkspawn and the crash of spells and swords. She's knocked down more times than she can count, thrown by tentacles, pierced by arrows. Shrieks claw at her and find purchase in her chainmail, and she loses blood fast. She can remember shouting, "Is all of this blood mine? _I think it is_-" before Wynne's healing soothes the worst of it, but before the final blow is struck, a mass of rotting, writhing flesh connects hard with her head and sends her flying into oblivion, her last thought _I'm going to be one of them_.

She comes to supported against Zevran's chest, the battle won, Alistair and Wynne looking on worriedly as the assassin eases a poultice into a long gash on her arm, fingers wormed through the metal. "Ah!," he says with a grin, "my prize has awoken!"

And that, even though she's in agony and the cavern reeks of darkspawn and rot and she's still shaking from the lingering terror of _Broodmother,_ makes her smile.

* * *

"I need to know how you fight."

"Are you challenging me to a Proving?"

They're back in Orzammar, finally, Bhelen crowned and Harrowmont executed. After several days and many, many baths, Fynnea thinks that the stench of darkspawn has finally been washed away. Now they're sitting on one of the low walls in the Commons, Fynnea staring at him and Zevran gazing over the edge at the lava flowing below.

"No. Just a sparring match. I don't want an _audience_."

"It will be hard to avoid one, down here. Not many empty spaces, hm?"

"There's that spot by the Diamond Quarter entrance. By the nug guy?"

Zevran hums thoughtfully, glancing over to her. "Why?"

Fynnea shrugs. "Leader thing. I should know how best to utilize you."

"Ahhh, embarrassed at saying 'do whatever it is you do', my Warden? It's a sign of a good leader, you realize, to give her followers some autonomy."

"Yeah, but I still need to know when to bring you along."

"You should _always_ bring me along, to compliment your eyes and fluster your enemies. No? And to make sure you can _utilize_ me however you see fit."

She laughs. "Yeah, I probably always will. _Still_. I mean, we fight with the same weapons... but we fight differently, right? I just don't understand _how_, really. So, come on. Unless you're scared?"

"No, not scared." He runs a hand through his hair, looking back out at the lava, and she thinks she catches a hint of nervousness in his expression. But he steadies himself and pushes away from the low wall, out back into the plaza, with a brilliant smile. "Come, then!"

Alistair looks up from the stall he's poking around in. "What are you two planning?" he asks, warily, eyes darting between them.

"Just a friendly sparring match," Fynnea sings, gliding past, excited for the first time in what seems like weeks instead of tired or scared or determined.

Zevran is by her side and Alistair- is following them. "I'm keeping an _eye_ on you, Zevran."

"Oh! So you have finally admitted to yourself my beauty? Your dark attraction to me? I am flattered!"

Alistair fights through his flush. "_No_."

"Well, with time, with time."

Fynnea rolls her eyes and then her shoulders as they approach the nug rancher. She leans in and presses a sovereign into his hand as they pass, murmuring, "We're going to practice a bit back here; promise we won't damage anything." He nods, letting them pass, albeit with an odd look.

Alistair sets himself leaning against the wall at the opening back out onto the streets. "Maybe we should get Wynne. In case things get a bit out of hand?"

"Shouldn't be necessary," Fynnea shrugs. Zevran quirks a brow, but nods and draws his blades. She follows suit.

"Try not to draw blood, you two?"

"Of course, my Princeling!" Zevran responds with a deep bow. Alistair sighs.

Fynnea settles herself, adjusting her grip and watching the Antivan. "I just want to see your sword skills, okay?"

He inclines his head, tossing his dagger up in an arc and then catching it. And then he's moving, _fast_, giving up a forceful strike towards her center to cut below her. She stumbles back, cursing, and he laughs at her when he comes to a stop. She resettles herself, and beckons.

From that moment on, it's a fast, dangerous dance of metal, punctuated by ragged, panting gaps where they regain their stances and composure before moving in again. She's fast, but he's faster, and when she goes for hard blows, he goes for ones that slide past defenses, even if they strike weakly. He uses his sword to deflect and his dagger to stab, while she tries to rend and tear between her blades, balancing defense and offense across the both of them. She relies more on her armor, he on his speed.

He can tumble and leap and dodge more easily than parry, and she can barely keep up, but her unrelenting force is wearing him down even as her breath comes fast and hard from chasing him around the small space. They begin to fight dirty, kicks knocking them back, elbows in guts and to faces, feet stomping on feet. He _laughs_ at her and she sees red, lunging. He dances out of the way. She catches his side with a fist, the blade dangerously close to connecting, too, and he falls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Some of this, she already understands. She knows he dances and plays and tires his enemies out until he can slip in for a clean, artful kill. But she hasn't understood until this moment _how_ he does it, how he _enrages_ her and draws her into over-extensions that, even if she can defend them, drain her. It's not like Alistair's taunts on the battlefield, it's more subtle than that. It's a look, a grin, a pause in the action where he doesn't even seem _winded_. She understands now why he wears leathers despite engaging in close combat. It lets him bend away, tumble easily. She's not wearing Alistair's heavy plate, but she's still unable to keep up with him or to take her falls as gracefully.

She manages to drive an elbow into his stomach hard enough to knock him back, but before she can bring her blade to his throat and call victory, he rolls away, catches her ankle with his foot, and drop her to the floor. It's her turn to roll and scramble, nowhere near as graceful or efficient as he is, and he has her on the run, prodding and teasing, his dagger blade skittering across her breastplate once, coming too close to comfort. His smile has faded, and his eyes look far away. She's far away, too, but she notices it, feels her stomach drop. This is how he looked the first time they met on the battlefield, the last time their blades locked.

He parries and she falls forward, and then he's dashing beneath her and surging up, throwing her head over heels. She lands hard and he spins with the throw, following her down, expression intense and dark.

The tip of his sword slams into the ground not two inches from her head.

"_Fuck-_" she gasps, and Alistair is on them, throwing Zevran to the side and standing over her, sword drawn. Zevran coughs, pulls himself up slowly, and stares at Fynnea. Fynnea stares back, heart pounding, too scared to process or to think. Alistair is shaking. She can hear the metal rattling.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't run you through, Zevran," he growls.

Zevran's sword drops from his hand, clatters to the ground. His dagger follows. He's still staring at Fynnea, and she sees anger and fear and confusion. And then- "I can't."

"Alistair-" she cuts in.

"He _just tried to kill you_," Alistair hisses, not sparing her a glance. "_Don't_ defend him."

Fynnea pushes herself up, finds her feet shakily. Zevran is staring now at the scratch his blade made in the stone. "W-we just got caught up. It was a mistake. _Right_, Zevran?"

Zevran says nothing.

Alistair rounds on her, glaring. "Just because he's a fucking marvel in bed-"

"_It was a __**mistake**_."

She looks over to Zevran, needing support and apology, and instead-

Finds him gone.

* * *

Alistair has confiscated her weapons and armor, thinking it will keep her sitting placidly in her room. He also thinks standing outside the door will keep her inside. He's angry and scared and is convinced that Zevran will return to finish the job, but all she can think about was the fear and confusion in his eyes. She needs to find him. She needs to figure out what the _hell_ just happened and why he hadn't simply laughed it off.

She's very, very glad that the night before he had pointed out the secret passage connected to the bathing area of the room she's been given. Dressed in the only plain clothes she owns, the dress she wore to her wedding, she slips into the passageway, through the halls of the palace, and out into the streets of Orzammar.

She wanders the Diamond Quarter and finds nothing. No sign of him. Nobody has seen the blonde elf, and she curses and moves onto the Commons, sticking to shadows, hallucinating the sound of armor behind her. It's Alistair she's afraid of, now. Afraid that he'll lock her up again and she'll lose the man who seems, sometimes, like her only friend in the world, the only one who _knows_ her.

The nug rancher says that he saw Zevran take off towards the west side of the Commons. She gives him another sovereign without thought and runs in that direction. The guards saw him, too, and point her to Tapster's. He was moving slowly, they say. Not trying to hide. The nobles were just ignoring him, it seems.

She finds him where they point her to, sitting in the back of the tavern, by himself, cradling a mug of strong-smelling ale. It's been hours since Alistair dragged her back to the palace, and from the look of him, Zevran's been drinking the whole time. He doesn't look up at her when she draws close.

"Come to kill me, yes?" He laughs, but it's a sad, low sound.

She shakes her head and slides into the booth with him, sitting across the table. "No."

"Alistair behind you, then?"

"No."

Slowly, he looks up at her. "I almost killed you."

"But you didn't, and you could have," she points out. "So I don't think you planned it. Am I right?" She's shaking a little, with the memory of a blade coming down at her, but _his_ fear then and his despondency now is outweighing the terror. _He didn't mean it_, she repeats to herself.

He looks back down at his mug, then takes a large swallow of it, grimacing. "This... muddy water is disgusting. Nothing like a good Antivan beverage," he mutters to himself, sliding lower in his seat.

"Zevran," she pushes, reaching out to touch his hand. He jerks away. "You looked _scared_, Zevran- what's going _on_? Because I know you didn't mean to do it, because if you _had_, I'd be dead. So what- what went wrong?"

He finishes the mug and pushes it aside, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenches his teeth. She waits, unwilling to look away.

"You shouldn't be out without armor," he says at last. "Harrowmont's supporters."

"I don't care."

"You should." He frowns, then sighs. He stares at his hands. "... I thought- for a moment, I thought you were one of my superiors. In the Crows."

It's her turn to frown. "Oh?"

"And I wanted so badly to make you suffer. Sad, yes? Here I am, hallucinating without anything _fun_ in me, and now I shall die for it."

"You're not going to die."

"Ah, if you don't kill me, you will still leave me. And the Crows will find me."

She grabs his hand, ignoring how he tugs and pulls, trying to escape. They never touch unless it's to play, and they keep their play separate from the long days and nights of hunting. Touching him now is strange, powerful. He stills after a moment.

"I am not leaving you. You're going to clean up and come with us when we strike out for Redcliffe tomorrow."

"My Warden, your companions will not let me live."

"Yeah? Even if I threaten anybody who lays a finger on you?"

"Why would you do that?" He finally looks up at her, lips a thin line, brow furrowed.

"Because-" She sighs, a strangled, pained noise. "Because none of the others actually know me. You do. I can't stop this _Blight_ if I'm only accompanied by people who want me to _calm down_. Besides, you didn't mean it, even if you won't _say_ it, and-"

"You do not need me."

"_OH FOR THE LOVE OF ANDRASTE, SHUT UP._" Fynnea trembles, glaring, fingers crushingly tight around his. He stares over at her, mouth falling open. "Stop with your stupid death wishes! First you take that job against me, now you sit around getting drunk, waiting for me or Alistair to come and take your head off? You are _coming with me_. Things will go back to normal. If you try to kill me again, I'll just _stop_ you. But I don't think you will."

"And when I have you tied up and at my mercy for _games_, what will stop me from hurting you?" he asks, softly. "The night we returned from Aeducan Thaig- I almost hurt you then, too. It almost turned into anger instead of fun. I stopped myself."

She remembers how shaky and harsh the last blow had been, how he'd been so quiet for a moment, how he'd doted so much on her afterwards. She swallows. But this all doesn't seem real, doesn't make sense. "... But _why_? Why do you want-"

"Because sometimes, all you are is the person who holds my leash, Fynnea." The words are whispered so softly she can barely make them out, and the color drains from her face. "And then I try to hurt you, and suddenly, you are Rinna, too, at my mercy, and I-" He shakes his head, pulling away from her suddenly soft grip. "I am a dangerous man, my Warden, especially when it concerns _you_."

She tries to piece it all together, tries to understand what he's saying. It's hard. It's confusing, and she can't imagine being anything but what she is, but to be both his tormentors (because despite his amusing tales of life with the Crows, she's picked up on the threads of not wanting to think about it, and recognizes them because of Shianni) and his one love wrapped into a tight, infuriating little package...

She shakes her head, pushing it aside for another time. "I don't care," she says, finally. "I trust you."

"You should not."

Fynnea shrugs. "I don't care," she repeats. He stares and then, faintly, tries on his old smile. She smiles back and waves over a round of drinks. They'll deal with details later.

* * *

**Notes:** Wardens may not be at risk of becoming broodmothers (we can debate that all we like), but for Fynnea, she's never been told what a broodmother IS and has no idea if she's at risk or not. Just thought I should clarify. :)

Next week, two chapters will be going up! They'll be DLC-related - Soldier's Peak and Return to Ostagar.

If you're enjoying the story, please consider leaving a review or dropping me a line. :) Also, if you're interested in general DA fic, I have a poll up on my profile about my next planned project. Take a look!

(Also, if you've ever wondered what exactly Fynnea looks like - I don't have any complete art yet, but here's a doodle for you! . )


	4. Soldier's Peak

**Chapter Warnings**: Vomiting. Again.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

Sophia Dryden looks like death.

Fynnea is only listening to the demon-possessed Warden enough to keep milking her for information, drawing out memories and stories for Levi's benefit. The man had found their camp on the long walk from Orzammar to Redcliffe, and while he had been persuaded to wait until they met with Eamon (who is calling a Landsmeet even now, leaving them with at the least a month to tie up loose ends), he soon begged hard and long enough that Fynnea had caved. She and Alistair and Zevran had set off with him to satisfy his curiosity nearly a week ago, and all she can think is that _This will be over soon_, _and I can get away from Alistair_.

Ever since the incident at Orzammar, Alistair had been hovering close by. He's only recently let Zevran share her tent again, and he stands watch next to it just in case. She's had to resist the urge to tell him _just how_ everything is okay now; she and Zevran have agreed to no restraints or blindfolds or gags while he's still uncertain of himself, after all, and doesn't that make them _responsible_? But saying all of that out loud would just make Alistair angrier.

She wishes, idly, that they could just go back to before the mess with the rose and Connor, but then remembers that she'd lose Zevran in that bargain. Better to stay here and now, and stop her wishing before it grows any stronger.

The demon in Warden armor is going on now about some sort of nemesis that keeps her trapped in this keep. And now- a bargain.

Bargains can be _fun_.

Fynnea smiles faintly, and asks, "What deal are you offering?"

Alistair groans and Zevran grins at her, leaning in to whisper, _"_Making deals with demons now, are we? I must say the Crows have misjudged Wardens. You are more cunning and _ruthless_ than we suspected."

The demon wearing Sophia Dryden's corpse ignores the commentary, white eyes focused on Fynnea's face. "You shall kill the one who traps me here - he is up in the tower. If you free me, I will seal the tears in the Veil. I will be the only demon left on this side to leave the Keep. You will let me travel and explore."

Fynnea shrugs. "Well, I guess I _should_ get that tear sealed..." Levi and Alistair both nod, "but it doesn't seem like that great of a reward. Especially if this _nemesis_ of yours is that powerful, yeah? Are you sure that's all you can offer me, demon?"

"You wish to bargain."

"I do."

Sophia Dryden laughs, a crackling dry sound that sends shivers down Fynnea's spine, but she stands tall (if barely breaking five feet ever counts as tall), weight on one leg, hip tilted, arms crossed over her chest. The demon looks at her appraisingly, then nods.

"This woman Warden stashed gold away. I will reveal the location if you assist me."

"That will work just fine."

Alistair, as always, grumbles something disapproving and Zevran, as always, grins at her. It's simply how the world works. Fynnea teases out a few added directions to this tower, and then leads the way out of the room. Sophia has dropped the glowing shield on the only door they haven't searched yet.

Levi Dryden, once out of the office, has begun to babble about _demons_ and _never expected_ and _my family name_! Fynnea looks at Zevran and rolls her eyes. He shrugs. _Forgive the man_ is in his eyes. She's gotten good at reading his expressions, ever since that long night at Tapster's, getting to know one another again. _Hi, I'm Fynnea Tabris. You're an assassin who tried to kill me, but you failed, and I think you're amazingly hot. I think we should have sex. A lot of it_. He'd responded with, _Zevran Arainai, and you truly __**must**__ be a deadly sex goddess. I think, with some limits, that can work. Who gave you your tattoo_?

Alistair cuts into her thoughts with, "_Dealing_ with _demons_, Fynnea? For just a bit of _gold_?"

She waves a hand. "You don't approve, blah blah blah, you're disappointed in me, this is probably Zevran's fault- can we just get on with this? I promise it'll be okay."

Alistair sighs, pointedly and _loudly_. It echoes.

"I just wish you'd _listen_ to me," he whines, softly, but follows obediently when she sets out for the tower.

* * *

"No. _Absolutely not_. _**Fynnea, put that down**_!"

Fynnea dances away from Alistair's grab, laughing and back pedaling easily. She holds the jar filled with dark, sticky blood above her head. "Oh, come on. You read the notes! This is the culmination of the man's research! And good things _always_ happen when I drink strange blood!"

"You _collapse_ and are _useless_ for at least a day afterwards," he points out, looking like he wants to tear out his hair. Luckily, his gauntleted fingers can't find purchase in his short-cropped hair, and so he just trembles ineffectually. He even shakes a fist at her, then points. "_So just stop right there and put it down_."

"But Zevran will catch me! Won't you, Zevran?" She grins over at him and he shrugs, holding up his hands helplessly.

"I can do little else, my Warden! Else Alistair will just let you fall, and then you will have a concussion, as well."

"How about you _just don't drink it_? It's bad news- think of where it's _from_!" Alistair's voice cracks a little and he has to look away as Fynnea laughs and shakes her head, pops the lid off the jar with her thumb, and takes a long swig.

She's still standing. "See! Not so bad at all!" She all but skips past Alistair to set the jar down on the table again. "And I even feel a bit better. It's- interesting, actually. Like my blood wants to come _ou_-"

And then she's falling, and even though Alistair is _right there_ and moving to catch her, it's Zevran who darts in and stops her fall. He sinks to the floor with his burden, settling her head in his lap.

"I _said_ she was going to collapse, but did she listen?"

"She listened," Zevran assures him. "She just didn't care. She is like that, often."

"Always, with _me_," he sighs, leaning against the table. "... I just can't believe that she'd make a deal with a demon, and _then_ top it all off with a swig of blood taken from suffering, long-dead Grey Wardens who were _experimented_ on. That's just-" He can't find the words and his sentence dies in a small, frustrated noise.

"She is having a cheerfully impulsive day," he agrees. "Actually, she's in a mood very similar to the one she was in when we fought Andraste, yes?"

"... Yeah, she is," Alistair says, thoughtfully, after a moment. "You- keep track of her moods?"

"To a point, yes. I at least can recognize them. She needs different things of me, depending, after all." His eyes flick down to her and he carefully brushes a lock of hair from her face. Even after he let his fears out to play in Orzammar, they're still not particularly _close_ when they're both awake and around others. Alistair's not entirely sure what to make of Zevran's tender attention.

He only says, softly, "You're twisted, you know that? Fitting yourself to her moods- does she _realize_ you do that?"

Zevran shrugs. "Probably not. But it is something many people do - it is, I believe, _considerate_. Being flexible and accommodating, when possible, no? At the very least, it is... pragmatic? And," he adds, winking at the former templar, "I don't think I could _live_ if I were suddenly all straight. I far prefer the _twist_."

After knowing him for months, Alistair can listen to him and not blush _too_ brightly. He still stiffens, though, before he sighs and sits down next to Fynnea and Zevran to wait.

Levi Dryden just looks on awkwardly, forgotten.

* * *

She isn't vomiting this time. It's a step up.

Of course, instead of just getting on with a holy Gauntlet, she now has to face down the mage who made the concoction she just drank. It seems rude to kill him right after supporting his research, and so she's talking, trying to keep both Zevran's and Alistair's quips in check. She lies without a second thought, assuring Avernus that Sophia Dryden is dead, and for all his talk of _knowing_ the Keep, he seems to buy it. So, not all-powerful. That's a good thing.

Fynnea graciously steps aside and lets him lead the way back towards the Veil tear, shooting Alistair a stymying look when he opens his mouth. He closes it again.

She thinks Alistair and Zevran must have talked while she was unconscious (they won't tell her how long it took for her to wake up - it could have been _hours_), because Alistair isn't glaring at the assassin nearly as much. She has no idea what they would have talked about, but _something_ is different. It's a little unnerving, really. Especially since Alistair doesn't seem any happier with _her_.

"Levi?" Fynnea slides up beside the merchant, stretching her arms above her head nonchalantly. "What did they plot while I was out?"

"Er, plot?" He looks surprised that she's talking to him.

"Yeah. Something's up with those two, right? I mean, _look_ at them."

There is actually less than a yard between them. They _never_ stand that close. But Levi looks between them and her and shrugs. "That's... abnormal?"

Fynnea sighs. "They _hate_ each other. So they _must_ have something sneaky planned. What is it?"

"Nothing? I mean, all they were doing was talking about you."

"But with no plotting."

Levi shakes his head.

Fynnea peers at him, but they're drawing close now. She sighs. "Oh well. Thanks, Levi. You know, you should probably stay out here - it's going to get nasty in a minute."

"I'll be fine." He smiles weakly. "I just keep thinking about what my family can do with each room of the Keep, if we can get the demons out. Some nice tapestries, new carpets..."

"We'll clear them out," she assures him, clapping him on the shoulder and smiling before she jogs up to where Avernus, Zevran, and Alistair wait. She pushes open the door.

Sophia Dryden is waiting for them.

"It's not dead!" Avernus growls, rounding on her. Fynnea is still smiling.

"_He_ is not dead." Sophia's voice is low and dark. "We made a _bargain_, Warden."

Fynnea holds up her hands. "I just thought you'd want to watch, demon. Didn't want to give you any reason to flake out, yeah? And if I had killed him in the tower, well, you could have just run away. So, here we are." She unsheathes a sword, and Avernus stumbles back, lips forming words and hands grabbing for his staff, but Fynnea is faster. His words turn into gurgling as he clutches at the blade now stabbed through his stomach, and when he falls, he turns into dust. Only his robe and staff remain.

The body of Sophia Dryden claps, slowly. "A good show," she commends.

Fynnea bows as she kneels and cleans her blade on the ancient robes. "Glad you liked it. Now. The tears?"

"Of course," Sophia nods, then takes the lead towards the great hall. Fynnea keeps her weapons drawn.

"That was cruel," Alistair murmurs, walking at her side as they follow. "I mean, I agree the man deserved to die, but letting him think we were on his side?"

"He wouldn't have come with us if we hadn't," she points out in a low whisper. "And I don't trust our demon friend. Besides, a little bit of betrayal is fitting, with what he did."

Alistair nods, slowly. "I- suppose that I can't argue with that."

"Warden," Sophia interjects as they pass into the great hall, the very fabric of the world roiling around them in nauseating spirals, "other demons will come when I begin sealing the rift. Be prepared. I must not be disturbed if I am to knit it back up."

Fynnea nods, easily shifting from her furtive conversation back into the role of impulsive commander. "Of course. Bring it on."

The demon snorts but gets to work without another comment. Fynnea glances at Zevran and Alistair, and at her nod, they draw their weapons.

The world is on fire.

There's burning and freezing and hard blows and Fynnea dances through it all, faster now and more coordinated thanks to her experience fighting Zevran. She's picked up a few things beyond simple experience, and the demons fall so much more quickly than they had all those months ago in the Tower. She laughs and calls out taunts, shouts orders, bounces on the balls of her feet when the onslaught slows, urges Sophia to _hurry_ to bring more of the battle on. Alistair is the center of the universe, drawing demons towards him while Zevran and Fynnea circle in orbit, ducking in and picking off. They're working together better than they have since Orzammar, maybe since _ever_, and they fight as if one being. It feels _glorious_. Something must have changed while she was unconscious, and she doesn't care what it is, anymore.

The battle is over too soon, leaving her hungry, aching for more. It was a clean fight, no injuries to speak of. Alistair had questioned leaving Wynne behind, but they don't need her after all, not this time.

"Thank you, Warden," the thing wearing Sophia Dryden rasps. "Your reward is in this human's office. There is a loose stone in the south-west corner, down by the floor."

Fynnea nods her thanks. "Oh, good! Glad to be of service. I think this was a great bargain all around, hm?"

The demon looks at her for a long moment, head canted, silent. Then, "... Yes. Are you not going to go off for your gold now, Warden?"

"In time, in time. First, though- as a Warden and a _good citizen_ of Thedas, I can't _really_ let you leave. You know that, right?"

Sophia Dryden's face contorts with rage, and Fynnea laughs. "_You_-" the demon hisses, and before Fynnea can bring up her blades to block, the demon crashes into her in a body-sized fist of metal and anger. "_You __**dare**__ to __**double-cross**__ me-!" _Her formerly dry, thin voice is deep and booming, unsettling dust from the rafters and battering at Fynnea's mind as she wraps her fingers around the elf's throat. Fynnea is gasping for breath, struggling, and _where are Alistair and Zevran_? It's like time has slowed down, and Sophia Dryden's body is unaffected, squeezing the life out of her. Alistair and Zevran won't get to her before her neck is snapped, and her blood is _pounding_ in her head, all of it rushing to her neck where the demon squeezes and twists and-

Blood erupts from her mouth, but it seems like it comes from_ everywhere_, shooting out of her and coating Sophia Dryden. The demon howls, falling back, clawing at her face even as the blood eats away at the preserved flesh. Fynnea claws at her throat, gasping for breath and rolling onto her hands and knees. The demon is back on her feet, grimacing through the pain, and she's _advancing_, but Alistair is in front of her, now, shield up, and Zevran is behind the demon, moving in for a kill.

Sophia's armored fist slams into Zevran mere moments after Fynnea regains her footing, and before Alistair can hold her back, the Warden is on top of the demon, her swords finding the only weak points in that heavy plate - neck and head. She's seeing red and there's the acrid taste of her own tainted blood in her mouth. She can't stop moving. There's nothing left of Sophia Dryden's face when Alistair finally hauls her back, and _still_ she thrashes, spitting like a wild beast. He's shouting her name, trying to get her to _listen_, but it isn't until Zevran stands up on shaky legs and rubs at his jaw that she stills.

Zevran just winks at her. "I've had worse. No need to get all excited, my _ruthless_, double-crossing Warden."

The words are thick and a little muffled by his rapidly swelling cheek, but they're clear enough that she laughs shakily and relaxes. Alistair still doesn't let go, instead sighing and saying, while he still has her a captive audience, "Well, at least you didn't _actually_ let the demon go. I was getting worried."

"I even managed to add to our war funds!" Fynnea agrees. "I am a _brilliant_ leader. We should go get our reward. Let go?"

"Right. But first-" Alistair sighs as he releases her, "what _was_ that?"

"What was _what_?" Fynnea asks, cheerful and beaming even though she's still trembling just a little from the adrenaline flood of _going to die_ and _Zevran is_-

"The blood- thing. You _threw up blood all over her_."

"It got her off me, didn't it?" She's not really sure what happened, just that her blood had wanted to come _out_ and now she's tired, with all the adrenaline gone. She nearly falls when she stretches to slide her swords back into their sheathes. Zevran is the one to steady her. "Think it was Avernus's research," she adds after a steadying breath.

"You're not _really_ going to go around vomiting all over darkspawn, right? Maker's breath, now I'm imagining you sauntering up to Teryn Loghain and _retching_ on him. Please promise me you won't do that at the Landsmeet."

She grins up at him through her exhaustion. "I promise _nothing_."

Alistair groans. Zevran laughs.

The world is working again.

* * *

**A/N:** A fairly silly, cheerful chapter, that could probably have just been another interlude. :) If you're interested, here are some of the songs that I associate with the story, in various ways:

_Marlene on the Wall_, by Suzanne Vega. (_Even if I am in love with you, all this to say, what's it to you? Observe the blood, the rose tattoo of the fingerprints on me from you_.)

_I'm Not Calling Your a Liar_, by Florence + the Machine (_I'm not calling you a liar; just don't lie to me. I'm not calling you a thief; just don't steal from me. I'm not calling you a ghost; stop haunting me. And I love you so much... I'm going to let you kill me_)

_My Boy Builds Coffins**, **_by Florence + the Machine (_My boy builds coffins with hammers and nails, he doesn't build ships, he has no use for sails. He doesn't build tables, dressers or chairs, he can't carve a whistle cause he just doesn't care_.)

_Tobacco Island_, Flogging Molly - The lyrics don't relate at all, but the actual speed and intensity of the song is very close to how Fynnea's mood tends to run. :)

There are a few more, but they are vaguely spoilery, so I'll post them up later. Perhaps with the epilogue!

Please consider leaving a review if you've been enjoying. 3


	5. Return to Ostagar

**Chapter Warnings**: A touch of angst. Also, spoilers for the Return to Ostagar DLC.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

"We _have_ to go." Alistair has his helmet off. His eyes are wide and his skin pale. She can imagine the hammering of his heart beneath his plate. She can imagine it because she feels it, too.

"Back to Ostagar," she says, softly, and he nods, the motion sharp, jerky.

"We need to- to get those documents. And if we can, I want- to give Cailan and Duncan a proper funeral. They- we never gave them that. We should have gone back the moment we woke up in the Wilds. We should have-"

"We _couldn't_," she reminds him. "We had no idea what we were _doing_. We would have died. But now- we can go back."

"Arl Eamon can wait," Alistair agrees, then takes a deep breath.

They're standing over the body of Elric Maraigne, unable to look down or at each other for more than a few stolen moments. Zevran is hanging back from the two of them. Fynnea is glad; this isn't _his_ to comment on.

"We should get Wynne," Fynnea murmurs, after another long, silent stretch. "It will be dangerous, down there. And she was at Ostagar, too. She'll want to be there, with us."

"It's going to add at least a week, stopping back at Redcliffe."

"We should go, anyway. Eamon will begin to worry if we don't check in."

Alistair nods, sighing. "Another added week, then. Hopefully the Bannorn is being reticent in pulling together for the Landsmeet. I- want to do this _now_. Before..."

_Before Eamon forces a crown onto your head_, she finishes for him, silently.

They had been on their way back to Eamon and the rest of their party from Soldier's Peak when they came across the man. Alistair had suggested a short detour through Bann Loren's land on the basis of a rumor he'd heard back in Redcliffe. The rumor was true. A survivor of Ostagar, with news and a task for them, but even without either- it was just the impetus Alistair needed. They're going to Ostagar.

In a way, it makes sense that they journey south now. This return trip, she's sat alongside Alistair in camp at night while Zevran scouts the area around them. Without everybody else around, it's been impossible to avoid each other, and after Alistair conceded that her manipulation of Sophia Dryden and Avernus was brilliant, he began to _talk_ again. They haven't talked, really talked, since before the night she killed Connor. It's been... surprisingly nice.

Things aren't _fixed_; he still distrusts Zevran (though perhaps somewhat less than he did) and he still vehemently disagrees with many of Fynnea's choices. They don't talk about Connor or about Fynnea and Zevran. But they _do _talk, instead of throwing biting one-liners back and forth. And now, they are set to journey back to where they met. To where things began.

It's a perfect sequence of moments.

Zevran clears his throat, and Fynnea looks back at him, startled out of her thoughts. "We should move on, my Warden. There is still light left; the faster we move now, the faster we get to your battlefield."

"Right. Let's get going, Alistair."

"... his body..."

"We don't have time," she says, shaking her head, but she crouches down and closes the man's eyes. "And he _is_ a deserter. This is all we can do."

Alistair sighs. He nods and leads the way southwest without a look back.

* * *

They're traveling south to Ostagar, a week and a half out of Redcliffe when Zevran brings up the change. "You and Alistair," Zevran murmurs, tracing patterns on her bare belly as they lie together in the dark of her tent. "Things seem better, between the two of you?"

Fynnea groans faintly at the imposition of needing to form coherent words. She almost thinks she's heard a note of jealousy. It almost makes her laugh. "Better, yeah. A little. He doesn't think I'm _completely_ evil anymore."

"I do not think he believes you're evil at all, my Warden." He strokes bruises he's left on her hips, his touch drawing shivers and memories of pleasure out of her. When they play now, he's so scared of hurting her that these marks of need and passion are her only physical reminders. She misses the ache of scabbard strikes, even if they only indulged that _intensely_ the one time. It felt right. His commands to stay still, to make no sound, to not come until he lets her- these all feel wonderful and amazing, too, but they aren't _quite_ what she needs. But she doesn't push. She doesn't want him to _run_.

"Oh?"

"No. He is laughing again, and not in his... how would you describe it? Pained, exasperated, perhaps hysterical manner?" He has a faint, bittersweet smile for just a moment. She catches it, though. She is much better at catching his moods than she once was. Orzammar changed so much, even if they ostensibly just returned to the status quo, as if he had never lost control. She purses her lips.

"Zevran, are you afraid that I'll- I don't know, accept the next wildflower he gives me, or something?"

He grins, deflecting. "Perhaps he will filch the next Andraste's Grace you pluck for Leliana?" She just looks at him, and soon his smile falls. "... I... perhaps a little, yes. Perhaps I have worn out my welcome? My usefulness?"

Fynnea can't help but laugh. "_Never_," she breathes, grinning, words tumbling out without thought or fear. "Somehow, I don't think Alistair would _ever_ be okay with scratching up my back."

"He also," Zevran adds, voice purposefully light, "would never hurt you."

Fynnea falls quiet, shifting onto her side and curling an arm over his waist. She pulls him close to her when he doesn't immediately slide up against her and presses light kisses to his tanned face, lingering over the small crows' feet at his eyes and the faint furrows along his forehead. "Not intentionally," she murmurs, finally, resting her forehead against his. "But you wouldn't, either. It's just- whatever it was you said. The leash thing. I still don't understand it, but I trust you anyway."

"You keep telling me this," Zevran says, trying to laugh but failing. He pulls away.

"And you keep telling me that I shouldn't." She follows him, shifting again so that she hovers above him, an arm on either side his body. She can't keep him there, but the gesture works symbolically. He stills and doesn't retreat anymore, not physically. "But I'm not going to believe you unless you- unless you explain it. Or something. The stories you tell me about Antiva, about the Crows, you always talk like you enjoyed much of it, or at least, the later parts. The earlier, not so much. But I get the feeling that you're not telling me everything."

"You shouldn't have to _hear_ everything, my Warden," he replies, voice soft. He's not meeting her gaze. The muscles of his jaw are tense, and his fingers flex and clench at his sides. "They are not stories for idle bed partners. They are not _stories_."

_Idle bed partners_? But she pushes it aside, as she does every feeling of _more_ or _not enough_. He's not offering _more_ or _enough_. He never will. She _knows this_, and so, while she can't stop the thoughts, she can ignore them, at least a little.

It doesn't stop her from caring about him.

"I _liked it_ when you hit me," Fynnea whispers, settling down beside him, chin on his chest, fingers tracing tattoo lines that curve up around his side. "And if telling me what happens can help- _fix_ whatever it is that makes you so scared you're going to hurt me, then I want to hear it. Unless..." She purses her lips, a new thought crossing her mind. It buzzes at the edges of her awareness like lingering darkspawn. It _hurts_, a little.

"Unless?" His voice barely breaks a whisper.

"Unless you didn't enjoy any of that. Or- any of _this_." The old fear is back, that he's sleeping with her for self-preservation.

But he shakes his head quickly. "I enjoy every moment of it," he reassures her, a hand coming up to rest on her back.

"So you're not just- doing it to make sure I don't kill you?"

"No." He smiles, then looks up at the canvas roof. "Though- that first night, the night you killed Connor? I asked you to let me into your tent because I thought it might... distract you from your violence?"

"... What?" She pushes herself up onto her forearms, frowning. "_What_?"

"After your fight with Alistair, I feared you might hurt him, or another of us." He shrugs. "I did not know you well enough, I suppose. I have been wrong about you before, yes? But I thought, if I could distract you-"

"You tried to make a _sacrificial offering of yourself_?"

"On the altar of a deadly sex goddess, yes." He's trying for levity. It doesn't work.

"Because of my _temper_?"

He doesn't respond, still staring up, past her.

"_Why would you do that_?"

She has to grip his upper arm _hard_, shake him, before he answers, "Because I have found it to be effective, in the past."

Wheels turn, thoughts seize, falter, and pick back up, and she releases his arm with a whispered curse. "Zevran-"

"I told you, my Warden, that there are stories you would not like to hear."

"_Tell me_." She's afraid to touch him, but she needs to know, needs to drag his past into, if not the blinding light of day, then the flickering campfire light that still finds its way into the gloom of the tent.

"No."

She growls, sighs, scrubs at her face with her palms. "You- you make me tell you what I want and need before we play, but you won't tell me _why you're dangerous to play with_?"

He touches her knee, a slight brush of skin on skin, and she uncovers her face to meet his gaze. "One day, perhaps. Not tonight." She's about to protest again, but he whispers, "Please," and her heart aches and her throat clenches.

He pulls her down beside him again and she allows it, soft and compliant and _sad_. He strokes her hair, murmurs against her skin, "One day, if you will keep me until then."

And she nods, because she won't, can't leave him like this, and she won't, can't make him hurt like this.

* * *

Ostagar is cold.

Six months ago, of course, it was just a little brisk. But now they have to wade through drifts of snow, some hip-deep (though they avoid those, what with the loud screeching of _darkspawndarkspawndarkspawn_ in their heads). Zevran complains about the effects of so much snow on his armor, until Alistair points out _his_ armor will _rust_. Then Zevran complains about stepping on long-frozen bodies, until Wynne points out that this is the site of a _massacre_, and could he please be more respectful.

Fynnea says nothing to Zevran's complaints and quips. Things have been strange and uneven since that night where she hadn't pressed enough. Zevran has been acting as if it never happened, except that he talks of _nothing_. Every word out of his mouth is the same light, pointless banter from when they first met. It's all she can do to keep herself from yelling at him, some days. This is one of them.

He's warmed her bedroll since that night, but it's felt empty, perfunctory. Enjoyable, but without the _heat_ that used to scream between them.

She refuses to think that this might be _her_ fault.

She's at the breaking point and wants to _push_, but this isn't the place. They're picking their way through the graveyard that is Ostagar, its always-crumbling pillars seeming even more despairing. There are darkspawn monuments strewn across the land, dead bodies on pikes, skeletons hanging from archways, pustulant growths springing from the ground, poking through the endless white.

And there are darkspawn all around.

They attack in waves, and Alistair cries out with each piece of Cailan's armor they find. He's hurting, drawn tight by just _being_ here, let alone finding this desecration. She fights close to him, leaving Zevran to pick his own way through the battles. There are hurlocks and genlocks and ogres, and they press through them all. There is no dance. There is only force, and they break through, finally, clearing the area where Duncan's tent had stood. Where the mabari were kept. Where the Ash Warriors waited. The weight of memory is crushing, and even Fynnea bows her head and fights tears.

Zevran stands apart, staring up at the grey sky.

They pick there way through the rubble, finding, finally, the key that Elric had left. They keep searching, unearthing bodies with still-familiar faces, before they come across Cailan's chest.

"I can't do this," Alistair says, softly, eyes fixed on the solid mass of the chest. "I-"

"I will," Fynnea assures him, quickly, stepping forward and kneeling. Her cold fingers fumble with the key, but soon the lid pops open. Gingerly, she lifts out documents, passing them to Wynne, who slides them into her pack. Before she can lift the longsword from the chest as well, Zevran is at her side, peering in.

"That is a sexy sword," he says, with a grin. "And I _must_ have it."

Alistair growls and knocks the elf aside, holding out his hands for it. "That's _King Maric's sword_." His face is dark with fury, and in an instant Fynnea is on her feet, standing over Zevran. He looks up at her, expression placid.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she breathes, shaking her head. She knows he had heard Elric's description of the chest. She knows that he knew exactly whose sword that was before he'd even spoken.

But he just shrugs.

Fynnea's shoulders tighten, her entire body coiling in anger, but she keeps herself controlled to simply kicking a mass of snow into his face before stalking off in the direction of the Tower of Ishal. "Come on, Alistair."

Alistair glares down at the sputtering assassin for only a moment before following.

Wynne doesn't spare him a glance.

* * *

"_No_," Alistair whispers, staring up.

Fynnea can't look away, caught by dark fascination and anger and sadness.

Cailan's body is suspended, stripped bare and abused, on one of the largest darkspawn monuments she's seen, displayed on the bridge above the battleground of Ostagar. He's been here for six months, but the cold and the darkspawn stench must have somehow kept the crows from him. He looks so recently dead, that for a moment, Fynnea can't get the fear out of her head that they'd kept him alive and in pain.

But his ribs are crushed and the blood has drained down into his legs and feet, turning them a sickly shade of purple. His hair is brittle, breaking off in the breeze. He has been here a long time.

It's strange. She had thought she had little fondness for the men and women at Ostagar. She'd been so happy to finally be on an adventure, but the pain and horror of Vaughan had tempered that excitement with distrust and anger. She'd liked Duncan. She'd mourned him with Alistair, although she never approached the depths of sadness he had in that week after Ostagar, trudging towards Lothering. But Cailan she'd needled, had almost insulted. She'd talked down to everybody, reminded them of their people's crimes against her kin. But seeing them here, dead- seeing _Cailan_ like a grim offering, a monument to the loss of Ferelden's armies-

She's _crying_.

Because as naive and silly as King Cailan was, she could still tell that he was a good man. And good men, idealistic and brave and full of life, do not deserve _this_.

"We should take him down," Fynnea says, breaking the tense, grieving silence.

"He deserves a proper pyre," Alistair agrees, hand settling on her shoulder.

"It would be best if we cleared out the remaining darkspawn- that genlock looked particularly clever," Wynne warns. "We should follow him. But once that is done..."

Zevran snorts. "It would be far easier to simply leave him for the wolves."

The moment freezes. Fynnea can hear her pulse pounding in her ears and behind her eyes, and she can feel Alistair's grip tighten hard on her shoulder. Then she pulls away from him, spins, advances on Zevran with a look that sends him backpedaling, fleeing. But she's fast and angry and is able to grab hold of a strap on his armor. She throws him into the low, crumbling wall of the bridge, towers over him, swords out now and crossed at his throat.

"_What,_" she hisses, cheeks flushed and teeth bared, "_in the __**Maker's name**__ is __**wrong with you**__?_ You _bastard_-"

Zevran's fingers come up to touch the metal gingerly. He squirms and doesn't meet her eyes. She sinks to one knee, tosses one of her blades aside and grips his neck with gauntleted fingers. She begins to squeeze. "Whatever it is, it needs to stop. _Now_. Do _not_ insult King Cailan. Do _not_ claim legendary weapons for yourself, weapons that hold _real significance_, because they are _sexy_. What's _happened to you_? You're _better than this_." He would never have said something like this a month ago. She _knows him_. Her fingers tighten, and he cries out. "I should toss you over this bridge and leave you for the horde," she spits, shaking and disappointed and confused.

"Fynnea," Wynne's voice interrupts, "we will need his help against the darkspawn."

Fynnea takes a deep breath, then lets go, retrieving her sword and walking towards the Tower. She doesn't look back. Her head still pounds.

* * *

All of her anger goes into her blades and her fists and her feet. She fights recklessly, but Alistair is too caught up to notice, Wynne is too busy healing her to chastise her, and Zevran is- Zevran is silent. He's not shouting out comments during battle. He's still fighting, but his face is impassive. His eyes, distant.

She doesn't think about it. All she thinks about is Zevran, insulting and needling and _pushing_ for no reason. She thinks about how much she wanted to snap his neck and forces that anger (and that _shame_) into each blow. She pushes ahead of the group, down in the tunnels below the Tower. She moves without a thought for the others. It's amazing she doesn't die. It's amazing that all that happens is that she's cut off from the others when part of the ceiling caves in.

Only Zevran is on this side of the rubble with her.

Fynnea almost doesn't notice they're trapped, but then the last corrupted spider falls with a screech, and the silence is only broken by harsh breathing and the pounding of fists on the other side of the wall cutting them off. She looks around, vision clearing and opening up from its tunnel. She looks around. The space they're in is small. It's dark. It reeks of death. And Zevran is the only other person there.

"_Fuck_."

"Now, my Warden?" Zevran murmurs, but shakes his head. There's no inflection in his words. He sinks down to the ground, sits with his back against one of the warren walls.

Fynnea jogs across the small space to the rubble, placing her hands up against it and trying to push. A few small stones tumble down. Dust leaks from crevices. Nothing else happens.

She can hear, faintly, Alistair yelling, asking if they're alright, promising to find a way in. "We're alive!" she shouts back, and she can imagine Alistair's sag of relief.

It's Wynne's voice that she hears next. "Keep away from the rubble! I am going to begin trying to move it!" There's a thrum of magic in the air, and Fynnea retreats back to the far wall. She slides down, settling next to Zevran.

"She may be too tired to free us," Zevran says, voice soft, eyes fixed on his hands.

"_Don't say that,_" Fynnea growls, and he shrugs again. He doesn't look at her. She wants to tear down the wall, she wants to _hit him_, she wants to cry, because this isn't what this trip was supposed to be. It was going to be sad, yes. It was probably going to be enraging. But she had thought it would bring everybody closer together, give them _closure_. She and Alistair have grown so close again, are talking and laughing and not exhausting each other. And Zevran- Zevran was supposed to finally see what had happened at Ostagar, to understand and sympathize and draw closer to her and maybe to Alistair, too. Instead, they've been fighting and arguing and she's just so _angry_ and he seems so _dead_. She lets out a strangled cry, hiding her face in her hands, curling up against the wall.

"I don't want to die," Zevran finally whispers. Time is passing. She doesn't know how long its been, but it's been a _while_. "I- _don't_-"

And that makes her sob. Zevran, with his death wishes and his pushing them all away these last weeks, Zevran with his past he won't tell her about, Zevran who understands life is transient, Zevran, the bringer of final moments- he _doesn't want to die_ and _neither does she_, but so far the wall hasn't creaked or budged.

"And I don't want to die with you hating me," he adds, and then she feels his hand on her shoulder.

She doesn't look up.

He pulls away. He stands up and begins to pace. He paces for a long, long time. The soft pad of his feet lulls her, and soon her tears slow and she drifts. She drifts on old memories of Soris laughing and Shianni drunk off her ass. She drifts on the memories of Zevran with his kisses and laughter and soothing touches. She drifts on _could have beens_.

His voice calls her back to the little room.

"The men and women who have held my leash- and _somebody_ has _always_ held my leash- they were not good. Not like you. When we play, I make sure you can stop at any time. I _listen_. It is _play_. With them- it was not play. And I was the one bound." Zevran doesn't look at her. He is almost talking to himself. She barely opens her eyes, watching the faint shadow of his movements.

"And I _hated_ them. I _hated_ them but I didn't let myself know that I hated them. I enjoyed every moment that I could, because what else can one do? Imagine that you cannot escape the ones who beat you, who send you into others' beds because you are an attractive little elf. They offer pleasure, but it's tainted with nothingness, with anger, with entitlement. It's easier to ignore the bad parts. To tell yourself that it _feels good_ and they are giving you the good life. They ply you with beautiful people, with fine wines, with gold. It is easy to focus on those things, and to ignore what they mean. It is easy to throw yourself into the work. Killing vents your anger and makes you feel _worth_ something, sneaking stimulates the mind with thoughts other than vengeance. Sex eclipses the pain. Yes?"

Fynnea slowly, slowly looks up. Her floating sadness has her stilled enough that she can just _listen_. That she can listen and wonder that finally, when faced with death, he trusts her more than he ever has before.

He has his back to her. "And when I have you at my mercy, Fynnea, you are every person who has held my leash, and I _finally have them_. I can finally make them suffer. It doesn't matter that yours is the one leash I have never minded. Do you understand? It never goes away. It simply sleeps. I-"

"I still trust you," she murmurs, voice thick.

He stiffens, then turns, slowly. "_Why_?" he asks, and his voice sounds like he's breaking. She uncurls, stands.

"Because-" _I love you_, but that doesn't make sense and she pushes it away- "I _know_ you." She looks at him, feeling helpless. "I don't_ know_ why I trust you. I just- _do_. And I want every piece of you. I hate this- this _shell_ you've become. This scared, timid thing that's following a _script_. It started after Orzammar, and it's only gotten so much worse. I want you to- to be like you _were_. I want you to stop being an _ass_."

"I was hoping it would push you away," he confesses, swallowing and staring at the ground. "If I said horrible things, you would distance yourself from me. I wouldn't risk hurting you. And I wouldn't- have to _tell_ you."

"But you _did_ tell me." Fynnea steps closer, just a little, and feels a surge of relief when he doesn't retreat. "Can we just- can we just go back to normal? Can I have Zevran back?" She can hear herself, soft and sad and scared, and he closes the distance between them, gingerly pulling her into his arms. They don't touch like this, not outside of her tent, but it feels _right_. "I want my- friend back," she whispers, and he nods and rests his chin on top of her head.

"I will try," he murmurs. "And- I apologize. For the things I have said today."

"Apologize to Alistair." She buries her face against his neck, pressing kisses to the bruises she's left. "It's _his_ father and half-brother."

"Ah, our Princeling..." Zevran chuckles. "I will."

"I'm still mad at you," Fynnea mumbles, voice muffled by his skin.

"I would expect nothing less. And besides, if you were not angry- I would not be able to make things up to you, hm? I will happily work to regain your favor, my Warden, as long as you will allow me my demons."

"I want them to go away." She frowns, but sighs. "But it's okay if they don't."

He smiles, and is about to say something when the towering wall of rubble crumbles to dust with a flare of green. Fynnea jumps and his arms tighten around her, reflexively. Alistair makes a disapproving noise, and Fynnea flushes. Before she can stumble over her words trying to explain, Zevran straightens and drops his arms. "I owe you an apology."

Alistair frowns, narrowing his eyes. "... Yes, you do."

"I did not mean much of what I said."

Alistair looks to Fynnea, who looks sheepish but nods.

"... Though your father's sword _is_ very sexy, and I mean that in the most respectful way."

Alistair groans and Fynnea laughs, weakly. Wynne just shakes her head, and beckons for them to follow.

* * *

They are bloody, dirty, and exhausted as they watch the flames of the pyre grow high. They each carry a piece of Cailan's armor. Alistair bears Maric's sword and Cailan's shield. Fynnea holds Duncan's sword in one hand. His dagger rests against her calf, comfortable in her boot. The sun is setting and the pyre is rising to become a part of the burning, setting sun, but the world is soft and warm. The cold and fear and anger have faded in the wake of quiet contemplation and exhaustion.

They have all offered words of peace and reverence, even Zevran, who had spoken quietly of how a man like Cailan could not have lived in Antiva - and that was what made him as loved in Ferelden as he was.

In the fight against the ogre and genlock necromancer, they had regained their old fighting patterns. They were dancing again, the four of them, Zevran orbiting, Alistair holding down the center, Wynne keeping the walls strong and Fynnea driving their enemies before blades. They had flowed. Even Alistair has stopped glaring, and Zevran's apologies have worked into all of them.

As Cailan's ashes float up in brilliant sparks, Fynnea sneaks her hand into Zevran's, and to her surprise, he clutches it. She can't feel his fingers through their armor, but the pressure is more than enough. He is here, with her, and they're out of the scripted limbo that had fallen the moment his blade had scratched the Orzammar floor.

Ostagar is warm in its own, frigid way. The snow around the pyre has melted, and when the fire dies, there's a stretch of stone and earth that's thawed.

* * *

**A/N:** Some angst and some shifting around of how they're all relating to each other! Next week, we'll be back to a one chapter update, because it's a doozie. They reach Denerim, which means an old friend is coming to visit, with... interesting results. Still just following the plot of the game, though.

As always, if you've been enjoying the fic, consider reviewing!


	6. Denerim

**Chapter Warnings**: More angst. Torture, including mentions of beatings, rape with a foreign object, and poison.

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper  
**

The Alienage gates are still closed.

The first time they came to Denerim, she'd been turned away with warnings that she wouldn't want to get involved in the riots inside, in the lockdown, in the press of the city guards. Alistair and Zevran had, in a rare show of solidarity, all that time ago, dragged her away even as she hissed and sputtered and nearly screamed at the guard. It was her _home_. Shianni and Soris and her father were in there, and she had _taken the blame_ so that they wouldn't suffer.

But then she'd run away to join the Grey Wardens, to save her hide.

She'd sulked for the rest of the day with that thought.

Seeing the still-closed gates bring back that feeling of shame and guilt, and she's in a haze all through the meeting with Arl Eamon at his estate. She's walking dead when they strike out into the market to resupply, to listen to rumors, to poke around the backstreets for potential threats and potential help. She knows Zevran is there with her, and so is Alistair. Leliana's insisted that she come along this time, in place of Wynne, who's decided that, after the long trip to Ostagar, back to Redcliffe, and then on to Denerim, she needs a rest.

Fynnea wishes_ she_ could rest.

She also wishes she could scale the Alienage walls.

Leliana and Zevran are chattering, bantering back and forth, and Zevran is teasing her with all his usual wicked glee. Ostagar has fixed whatever was broken at Orzammar, and Zevran is _Zevran_ again. She manages a smile through the haze at the thought. She's gotten him to leave bruises and bites along her skin. The little aches make the long days of walking harder, but she has mementos and he seems to finally be moving towards trusting himself. They push it a little every time. He comes up with half the suggestions. It's fun and intense and silly, and during the days of travel, they often laugh and race ahead of the others.

But today the Alienage gates are still closed, and her mood now is sour. No racing. No laughing.

Zevran notices after a long stretch of uninterrupted banter, and perhaps after Alistair motions with his head to her. She's walking with her eyes down, her brow furrowed. She's isolating herself. She feels him slip up beside her. A hand finds her waist in that awkward way people touch when moving, unable to keep proper distance and proper pace no matter how long they've walked together in the past, his fingers skittering over her armor, only about to skirt lightly on her side. She almost stops to let him draw closer, because she craves the quiet support he sometimes offers (needs it far more than laughter and running), but he stops before she can finish the thought. In fact, the whole party has come to a stop and it startles her into looking up.

There, on a set of the high, steep steps so common in the back alleys of Denerim, is a man with short cropped hair and leathers the same style as the ones Zevran wore when she first met him. He's looking down at Zevran with a quirked brow and a nasty smile.

Zevran straightens up and swallows. "Taliesen."

"Zevran! Finally, I've tracked you down." The man descends a step, and Fynnea can't take her eyes off of him. She's rooted to the spot. _This is the man who killed Rinna_, her thoughts hiss. _This is the man who made Zevran cast Rinna aside_.

"Come to kill me?"

Alistair and Leliana are looking between the two men, confused, unsure of what to do, but their hands are at their weapons, ready to defend. Fynnea knows she should do the same. She wants to put herself in between them, guard Zevran, keep this Crow away from him. He's _hers_- except that he's not. He never has been, in her mind, no matter what he says about blood oaths and promises and leashes. So she stays still, frozen in place, torn.

Taliesen ignores them all completely, focused only on the tanned elf below him. "No, not at all. I'm here to ask you to come _back_. You can return with me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. It's not too late- come back and we'll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake." That smile is still wicked and cruel, and he's still advancing on Zevran, slowly. It's Alistair who steps between them. Taliesen's attention finally shifts, languidly, to Alistair, then to Fynnea.

"And the catch?" Zevran asks.

"Well, it's not a _catch_, just a minor inconvenience. We just need to make sure your contract is fulfilled. And look! Your marks are right here, and I am with you to assist!"

Fynnea's paralysis is finally broken at the threat, and she draws her weapons, stepping not in front of Zevran but to his side. "He doesn't need the Crows anymore," she says, trying not to laugh at how _little_ Taliesen understands. "He belongs here." And before she can stop the words, she adds, "With _me_."

"You obviously don't know who you're talking about," Taliesen responds after a moment's hesitation.

"And neither do you," Zevran says, shaking his head and laughing faintly. His hand brushes Fynnea's elbow as he, too, reaches to unsheathe his weapons. "I am sad that it has come to this, my old friend-" and Fynnea does hear some sadness, but to her now-practiced ear, it's tempered with satisfaction and a bit of eagerness, "but I cannot let you do this."

Taliesen's smirk turns quick into a scowl before settling into placid, and with the rise of his hand, arrows begin to fly.

Zevran tackles her to the ground to get her out of the path of the initial volley, while Alistair charges up the stairs to knock down Taliesen with his shield and Leliana finds a protected spot to begin returning fire. Zevran smirks down at her before he's off, heading straight for the other Crows now visible in the alley. She follows suit once her breath comes back to her.

The fight is surprisingly short, but any longer and the Crows would not have missed again. The archers are all down before more than two volleys have been loosed, and Alistair keeps Taliesen from giving new orders until Zevran and Fynnea have joined him. Leliana continues to provide covering fire for them, taking out the last few assassins who still lurk, hidden to all but trained eyes. Fynnea wonders again at Leliana's background for a fleeting moment, thinking that maybe if she knew more about Orlais, the lay sister might make a bit of _sense_. But then, as always, Zevran takes her attention back. She and Alistair have Taliesen on the defensive, and he's not guarding his back. Zevran nods to her over Talisen's shoulder, grins, shuts his eyes for the briefest of moments, and then runs his old friend and sometimes-lover through on both blade and dagger.

The alley is finally still, except for the wet thud of Taliesen hitting the ground. Leliana is moving between the bodies, gathering coin, poison, and unused arrows. Alistair is looking more than a little confused, and Zevran- Zevran is smiling at her, faintly, from across the gulf of Taliesen's body between them.

"An old friend?" Alistair asks after a moment, and at Zevran's nod, he adds, "Okay. Don't really want to know any more than that. Er. Well, except- are they going to keep sending your old friends after us?"

"They will likely assume that I died alongside Taliesen." Zevran shrugs. "If I were to leave now, I could easily disappear from them." Fynnea makes a small noise, and he smiles. "No worries, my Warden. I do not intend to go anywhere, unless you forcibly send me from your side. And even then, I have been known to track you down with little to go on but the bloody swath you cut!"

Alistair's purposefully putting distance between the two of them, going over to join Leliana, and Zevran beckons her close with a tilt of his head as he cleans and sheathes his weapons.

"You have freed me," he says as she comes to his side and he loops an arm around her shoulders, now covered in new armor, fashioned by Wade out of Andraste's skin and christened with the blood of Antivan Crows.

"... but you said you wouldn't leave-"

"I mean, you have freed me from some of my demons." He nudges at Taliesen's body with the toe of his boot. "Perhaps now Rinna will rest, yes? No more specters of her. Or of what he and our Masters made me do."

Fynnea's worried expression breaks into sunlight and smiles, and she turns to throw her arms around him. He laughs, picking her up and spinning her once in a circle. They're both thrumming from the battle, still. "I'm so glad," she murmurs, and her heart is pounding, because he's _happy_ and close to her and full of light that she hasn't ever really seen in him. The lines on his face have eased already.

"As am I," he agrees, that smile still fixed on his face. He lets go of her and reaches up to one of his ears, undoing the catch on a small golden loop and pulling it from its piercing. He holds it out to her in the palm of his hand.

Fynnea looks down at it, then back up at him. "... huh?"

"It's a souvenir from my first kill. He was wearing little else at the time. But I think- I would like to see _you_ wear it, instead. As a token of my- thanks?" His smile is a little strange now, almost wistful and little nervous.

She reaches up to touch the earring, picking it up as gingerly as she can with metal in the way. "... I don't have my ears pierced," is all she can think to say, and he laughs, an easy sound but perhaps a little strained.

"We can fix that, yes?"

She looks from the gleaming gold to him. "Does this-" and her heart is in her throat again. She feels _ridiculous_ when she's like this, all butterflies and nerves and fairy tale dreams, but it's also so _pleasant_ to hope, and before she can stop herself- "mean we're married? In Antiva?"

Zevran looks horrified, but his, "Oh no, I hope not!" is more joke than real, and her blush isn't _too_ bright. He closes her fingers around the earring, now, grinning. "Just- keep it, yes? And before you go to fight the Archdemon, I promise, I will help you wear it."

Fynnea nods and, after a deep breath to steady and find herself again, pulls away from his warmth and calls out to the others.

She's forgotten entirely about the gates, the almost nonexistent weight of metal in her hand the center of her world.

* * *

The whole walk back, once the excitement has settled some, he keeps giving her these strange little thoughtful looks, and she responds with questioning blinks and tilts of her head, and he just- ignores them. He doesn't explain. A few times he comes close to saying something, but then Leliana is squealing over a pair of imported Orlesian shoes and in that moment's break, he seems to think the better of it.

He disappears the moment they return to Arl Eamon's estate.

Fynnea wants to run off after him, but she can't. Eamon needs to talk, to discuss more plans for the Landsmeet. He wants to know what happened with Taliesen (because their armor is bloody and Fynnea has the _look_ of excitement and eagerness and _need_ that happens when she fights - or, in this case, when she's clutching a small earring protectively in one gauntlet). She and Alistair spend over an hour in his office, going over the events, explaining Zevran's original mission and subsequent defection, reassuring him that yes, the Antivan _is_ loyal, why did it take you so long to ask, hasn't he proven himself yet?

She finally escapes by begging off to clean her armor, and Eamon relents- towards her. Alistair watches her go with envy and exhaustion.

Fynnea sheds her armor and places it on a stand to clean later, then, still holding tight to her prize, begins her search.

She starts in the library, where she'd found him earlier before they'd gone out for the day. He's not there, of course, but she knows of few other places where he might be. She prowls the halls and finds nothing, questions servants and gains little. She tries to think like him, but those thoughts lead either to somebody's bedroom (and she's checked all the ones with open doors, too scared to knock on the ones that are closed) or to the Pearl (and she doesn't feel like traveling across the city again just now, and hopes that he doesn't, either- for a whole host of reasons that makes her stomach twist).

Somewhere during the long search, Fynnea is finally honest with herself. She's head over heels in love. It's ridiculous and amazing and perfect, and she feels like even if he never notices, it'll be fine. It's the first time she hasn't just wanted to _take_, to fight until she gets her way. She's loved him since- maybe since Orzammar, certainly since that long, strange isolation in Ostagar. And she knows she can't _tell_ him, but that's okay, too. She doesn't want to make him run. She's willing to keep a little secret.

This afternoon has her in an emotional tailspin, though. She's helped to _rescue_ him, even if she thinks that he did most of the work. He chose her over Taliesen. He didn't tease her afterwards about saying he belonged _with her_. He gave her a gift, _her_, who always gives gifts to everybody else. (But they're not married in Antiva, she reminds herself - though maybe that's a _good_ thing.) She feels like they're closer than they ever have been, his life now actually a part of hers, instead of running parallel, and now he's hiding. She can't _find_ him. It's been over an hour of searching, and she's on the verge of giving up, the melancholy from earlier creeping back in, when she sees the almost hidden ladder that leads up to the old wall surrounding the estate.

She scrambles up it, the cool evening breeze turning to a brisker wind. There, perched on top of one of the crenelations, is Zevran. He glances up when she clambers over onto the wall proper and smiles, faintly.

Fynnea's a little unsteady on her feet, but she crosses the space between them without any major mishaps. She leans against the next crenelation over and nibbles at her lower lip, then offers a small, shy smile.

He smiles back, then turns to look out at the city.

"I've been looking for you," Fynnea blurts out after a moment's silence. "For an hour."

"Did you consider that I might not have wanted to be found?" His voice is soft, thoughtful. Strange, for him.

"Oh. I-" She frowns, shifting uneasily. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. After Taliesen."

"Mm." He's resting on the balls of his feet, curled up, coiled tight. It's as if he wants to take a flying leap from the building out into the streets. Disappear. The thought turns the butterflies in her stomach to lead.

"... Are you?"

"I am... in an interesting mood, shall we say?"

"Oh." She runs a hand through her hair in order to keep herself from reaching out for him. She doesn't want to push him now. He might _fall_. She wants him away from the wall, back in the Arl's estate. She wants him in her arms, over her, teeth grazing her skin. It'd be easier to understand.

"It seems a whole book of my life has closed," he murmurs, softly. "I thought it had ended with being spared by you, but I was foolish. _Now_ that part of my life is closed. It's an odd feeling, all of that... behind me. Being truly able to _choose_."

"It's a good thing, right?"

"A very good thing," he agrees, with a faint smile towards her. "But strange. It is taking some... adjusting. Now that my blood's cooled a little..." Zevran shrugs.

"Do you have any... plans? For- after."

He hums thoughtfully, uncurling and stepping down to the stone floor. She breathes a sigh of relief. "Freelance work, I suppose. Perhaps our Princeling will be in need of an assassin. What do you think?"

At least this hasn't unsettled him to the point of wanting to turn to a life of charity. It soothes her, and she grins. "And maybe he will need a very angry elf, too?"

"Maybe." Zevran's expression falters a little, and the lead is back in her stomach, filling now her lungs and heart as well.

_Do you want me?_ is turned into, "Come to bed?" because the former seems too needy, too weak, too scared.

Zevran shakes his head. "No-"

Fynnea swallows.

"No. I-" He's searching for words, and finally sighs, giving up. "Just- No." He has an odd, remorseful look on his face.

_He's running_. She doesn't _understand_, but she knows he's running, and suddenly all her old temper flares again, and she's shaking, glad she's left her weapons in her room, glad she's in slippers that Leliana lent her that have little traction.

"Oh," she says, and her voice is flat. He flinches, but doesn't offer more of an explanation. It's _enraging_, and while she doesn't leap at him or throw a punch of do anything physical, her words turn sharp and angry, and she's isn't thinking anymore, not when the words tumble out. "I _thought_- You were _happy_ with what happened. You said you were _glad_. But you're really not over what happened, are you? You're- just- you don't _care_, Zevran! You don't realize what you're doing to me, do you? You gave me that earring and I-"

He cuts her off, growling out, "You have far more important things to get upset about than _me_."

"And I'm sure you have far more important things to worry about, too," she grits out from behind clenched teeth. _Don't deny me_! is screaming in her ears. He'd told her that he never _would_-

"Fynnea-"

"No. _No_. I don't- just- _run_, if that's what you really want. I can't-" And _she's_ running, slipping over the wall, nearly falling down the ladder.

He isn't following.

* * *

She didn't take Zevran to the Arl of Denerim's estate.

It was the first time since they met that she hadn't had him at her side, and it wasn't because she couldn't find him or had to leave before she could look. He was in the room when they heard the news about Anora. He was in the room when she told Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana to follow her. He'd looked like he was about to say something, but she'd hissed, _"I can't handle this right now_," and he'd fallen back, a distant, nevous frown on his face.

She'd ignored it.

Perhaps she shouldn't have left him. Perhaps he would have noticed Ser Cauthrien's forces in time to find them another exit. Perhaps she wouldn't be screaming right now if she'd just trusted him, like she had promised she always would.

Fort Drakon is a palace of horrors. The stale air reeks of blood, sweat, shit. The fear and finality is crushing, and it all presses in around her with every hit of the lash, with every fist to her face and stomach, every kick to her knees. She bleeds and burns and screams, and it doesn't _stop_. It never stops. They keep pushing. At first, they ask her about _Orlesian plots_ and _the invasion_ and _King Cailan's death at your hands_, but soon the questions are gone and there's only laughing and jeering and _pain_. They don't need her to speak anymore. They make her drink scalding liquids that make her body writhe, that feel like fire in her veins, that make even the dim light of her cell too much.

There are periods of respite, periods where they take Alistair or they let them both lie together, breathing shallow, barely able to speak. But those periods are short.

She had thought she liked pain. Battle was exhilarating, Zevran was transcendent, but _this_- they keep her anchored to her body with unexpected rhythms. They don't let her fly, they don't let her retreat. She experiences every cut, every lash, every burn, every blow. They pull her apart and put her back together. They use poultices and potions that keep her conscious but are mixed with something else that makes her nerves scream.

It seems like years, down in that dungeon, and in the dark, when Alistair is somewhere close by and their screams have turned to sobs or numb silence, Alistair whispers that they're not going to get out. That this is the end. And somehow, Fynnea shakes her head and whispers,

"No, he'll come."

Alistair reminds her, weakly, that even he'd noticed that something was wrong between them. And that maybe he _won't_ come. And even if he did, he wouldn't make it in time.

There _is_ a small mercy. They don't rape her. She's heard them talking about it, but it always comes down to the same thing- _tainted by darkspawn, bet she has teeth in there, rotting meat, don't touch her_. She'd laugh if she could. They're wrong about so many things, but this one- _this_ one is the one that saves her from that little indignity. It doesn't stop them, though, from forcing metal objects into her and watching her cry and fight. But it could be worse. It could always be worse.

She's curled up in the corner farthest from the cell door, shaking, running from cold to hot and knowing, dimly, that she's feverish, when something begins to change. There's shouting in the distance. It sounds familiar. But whatever is raging through her blood now, illness or another poison, has left her muffled, wrapped up in a blanket of _numb_. She can't sort out the images or the sounds or the sensations. Alistair is pulling himself up, somehow, probably gripping at the rough, barbed bars. He's saying something. One of those familiar voices is loud and rough. The other is silent now.

Did somebody die?

She groans, twitching, when she hears metal scrape against stone. The cell is open. They're going to take her down again, or maybe leave her alone. Being alone is the worst. Even though when they're together they can barely move or speak, knowing Alistair is _there_ makes everything a little more bearable. She doesn't want the door to open. She doesn't want-

Somebody touches her, and she screams, searing pain lancing through her body, cutting through the numbness and flashes of hot-cold. She thrashes weakly, naked limbs striking out in uncoordinated arcs. There's a whispered, unfamiliar curse in a familiar accent. She opens her eyes, her lashes clinging together a moment with salt tears and grime. She's stopped looking at things, however long she's been here. Seeing it coming somehow only makes it worse, now.

She's hallucinating.

Zevran is crouching above her, Zevran with his tanned, lined skin and beautiful tattoos and flaxen hair, Zevran looking almost _panicked_, hands hovering, afraid to touch her again. He's wearing some ridiculous outfit. It's bright. She has to squint. He's not even in armor, though there's blood streaked across his face and clothing. Of course there's blood. He's an assassin. She can't forget the blood, if she's going to conjure up his image.

Fynnea had thought that all her tears had been used up, that all that could come out now was blood or salt or pain, but she's crying again. She's hallucinating, she knows it, because behind him is _Oghren_, of all people, and neither are in armor. Oghren is digging in his pack and Alistair beside him is fumbling at the belts and clasps of his familiar plate. Her armor is there, too, lying on the ground next to Zevran. She could bump it with a toe if she moved.

They must have given her something. The thing burning in her veins- it's bringing to her what she wants most, and soon it will break all of it, break _her_. She curls up tighter, scabbed wounds creaking and cracking, hot blood trickling out. Zevran curses again.

"-ould have brought Wynne-"

"_Why are you doing this_," she whispers through cracked lips, addressing the guards she's sure are standing just out of sight, laughing at her. Her eyes unfocus.

"I can't leave my Warden to rot, can I?" Zevran murmurs, voice so soft, and he's taken a jar of green slime from Oghren. Real poultice, and it smells like the kind Wynne makes, potent and strong. It can't be real, because they use old poultices here, with dirt and bugs and poisons mixed in. She hates this, these _lies_, but she can't fight when Zevran touches her as gently as he can, smoothing the slime into the worst of the wounds he can reach. "Please forgive me," he's whispering to her. "This might hurt."

And it _does_, every touch of his fingers hurts, but she can't fight him anymore. She can't fight the vision. She needs to take what comfort she can, and so she falls limp and pliant under his hands, lets him turn her, sit her up against his chest. She only whimpers when he dresses her. He's switching out his clothing for armor, and dressing her in the bright, blood-stiff fabric. Oghren is in armor now, too, and he's packing hers away for later. She can barely stand, let alone fight or hold up the weight of dragon skin. Alistair is unsteady on his feet but his grip on his sword is firm, and his jaw is clenched.

Maybe she _isn't_ hallucinating. It's all making some kind of strange sense, except that Zevran is here and is so gentle, except that _they're actually being rescued_.

Alistair may have nominally given up hope, but she'd been worn down to nothing. Her reassurances stopped long ago.

Zevran lifts her into his arms and she buries her face against the familiar smell of his leathers. "I want to go home," she whispers, weakly, and he smiles down at her.

"Leave it to me, my Warden."

* * *

Three days. She'd spent only three days in Drakon, but it still feels like a lifetime. She drifts in and out of sleep for another day and a half afterwards, waking up to the cooling rush of Wynne's magic and the welcome sting of Zevran smoothing new poultice into her wounds, then holding her gently as he rewinds her bandages. She lets Zevran move her until she's dressed in her smalls again, barely awake enough to notice. The rest of her skin is just covered with a blanket, leaving her wounds easy to get to. Barkspawn is a heavy, warm weight against her legs through most of it. He anchors her. She strokes his head when she's awake enough to. He licks her fingers. She hears soft voices, whispers between her companions as they check in on her. She can't make out words, but they all seem worried, and then, as time passes, relieved.

When she wakes up in the middle of the night on the second day, she feels lighter, clearer. She's actually awake instead of drifting through the light. She manages to sit up, Barkspawn lifting his head and panting, happy. He squirms up the bed alongside her, nuzzling his head into her hand. She laughs, then looks around for water when her breath catches roughly in her throat.

"Here." Zevran is sitting beside her bed. He looks like he's just woken up as he smiles and pushes a wood cup along the bedside table to her hand. She takes it, drinking greedily. He watches with half-lidded eyes, then pulls himself out of his chair. "Should I get Wynne? Are you in pain? She's checking on Alistair now, but-"

Fynnea shakes her head. _That_ hurts, just a little, and disorients her for a moment, but it's nothing she can't handle. She's been asleep through the worst of the healing. Now she's just stiff and sore and feeling the need to get out of bed and run laps to loosen herself up. It's amazing, how much magic can fix.

She's pretty sure that if she stood now, though, she'd fall.

"Have you been here the whole time?" Fynnea asks, softly, voice a little smoother from the water. He nods. "So I wasn't hallucinating?"

"Hallucinating, my Warden?" He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, and her hand finds his wrist, wrapping around it, anchoring her.

"At Drakon. When you showed up in that ugly outfit. The bright orange one."

He laughs, shakes his head. "Unfortunately, that was very much real. Oghren and I bluffed our way past the guards as the Famous Broma Brothers of Antiva. I am still amazed it worked as well as it did."

"That must've been something." She manages a small laugh, and Zevran's face lights up.

"Ah, to know you are feeling good enough to laugh-"

"I'm just glad I'm out of there." Fynnea rolls her shoulders and shifts her legs, trying to work out the tightness. "It was- bad." The memories are there, a great mass of pain and fear, but it's _over_. She repeats that firmly, and she can fit it away in a little space to maybe, one day, untangle. For now, though, she wants to talk and laugh. She wants to distance it.

"I saw as much. I am sorry we did not get to you sooner. Anora told us what had happened, but it took three days to wear down Eamon enough that he didn't reject our plan outright. He wanted to storm Drakon, or call the Landsmeet without you to accuse Loghain. Both of which are _intensely_ foolish plans."

Fynnea laughs and nods. "Good thing you managed to convince him."

Zevran hums thoughtfully, then leans in to brush some of her matted, blood-crusted hair out of her face. "... About the night before you left," he murmurs after a moment of Fynnea's stunned silence at the feel of his skin against hers. "I need to apologize."

"Oh," she says, frowning and biting at her lip. "... I-"

"Lost your temper, yes," he agrees. "But I encouraged it."

She shifts uncomfortably. "I just- what _changed_? What's different now? I don't-" The old anger and confusion are coming back now, trickling in around the edges of her exhaustion.

"I..." His face contorts into a grimace for just a moment before he breathes deeply and shifts so that he's sitting fully on the bed, back against the headboard and legs stretched out in front of him. He's out of armor, dressed in coarse linens that are easily cleaned, nurse's clothes. Her blood is on them. He gestures for her to come to him, and she scoots back to sit next to him, her shoulder brushing his.

"Be patient with me, my Warden?"

Fynnea nods, still worrying at her lower lip.

"I was raised by women whose livelihood was built upon pretending to love. There was very little... genuine affection in that place. And at a young age, I was sold to the Crows, among whom love or other sentimental emotions are a weakness. It is unallowable. It is _dangerous_. It nearly killed me, after Rinna- if I had simply kept my heart as hard as I had been taught, I would not have thrown myself at death."

Fynnea's head begins to swim, uncertain and nervous about where he's leading. She rests her head against his shoulder, and he brings an arm up to encircle her.

"What I mean is," he murmurs after a pause, then hesitates again. "My Warden, since the night you invited me back to your tent- perhaps before that, perhaps as early as when we shared that pomegranate? - I have felt... confused."

"Confused?" she repeats, staring up at him.

"It was a pleasant confusion, an enticing one, but it was still baffling. I- my Warden, Fynnea, I- feel things towards you that I am not _meant_ to feel. And they built in intensity until you freed me from Taliesen, and then they crested. In those moments right after Taliesen fell, I was swept up in them, and I- that's why I gave you the earring."

Her heart's pounding in her chest, but she's still nervous, still scared that this will end with _and now I must leave_, and she tries to appease him. "Do you want it back? The earring?"

He blinks, then shakes his head, laughing quietly. "No, no. I want you to keep it." He presses a kiss to the top of her head before resting his cheek there, not caring about the blood or dirt. "During the walk back here, I was able to put words to what I was feeling, and it scared me. You were right; I ran. I am a coward, my Warden."

"Yeah, a little," she agrees, voice soft, but her heart is still hammering in her chest and she closes her eyes, fingers twisting in her lap.

"But... I hope I have redeemed myself, a little."

"By rescuing me?"

He nods.

"I knew you'd come," she whispers, and his arm around her tightens. "I- I'd given up, but I still knew that if anybody came, it'd be you. You- mm-" She squirms in his grip, and he loosens it and pulls away just enough that she can lift her head and look at him. "You love me?"

He hesitates a moment, then nods again. There's a faint blush across his cheeks. There's a brighter one across hers.

She grins, shifting impulsively into his lap, straddling him and settling her arms around his neck. Barkspawn whines, losing his warm support and rolling onto his side. She ignores him, instead stealing a kiss from Zevran, who stares up at her, relieved and scared and tentatively happy.

"Good. Because I thought I was the only one."

He laughs, arms encircling her gingerly, mindful of her wounds.

* * *

_AN: _For those of you no doubt thinking Fynnea is recovering far too fast - just wait until next chapter. She's only just beginning to feel the full impact of what happened, and she hasn't had much time to be conscious of it yet.

Next chapter, we get to go to the Alienage! There are only three chapters left, now. The Alienage, the Landsmeet, and the final battle.

Reviews appreciated, as always! I'll be the first to admit that I don't feel like this chapter is particularly strong - I'm not skilled at moments of confessing feelings, but it had to happen for later scenes.


	7. The Alienage

**Chapter Warnings**: Body modification (piercing).

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

"How are you sleeping?"

Alistair is looking at her intently. He has dark circles under his eyes, and she can guess the answer for _him_. But right now, she's working. She's been talking with Eamon and making plans with Anora all day, even though Zevran had invited her to stay in bed with him forever. She'd almost accepted, flustered and pleased and alive with the memory of the night before, but she'd pulled away.

She'd thought she was okay. When they'd kissed and talked and murmured words of love, she had thought it was all behind her. That it was a bad moment and it was over, and that now everything was fixed. She and Zevran had fought right before, and reconciled right after. Compress the two, and Drakon was gone.

And then she'd dreamed.

She had been surprised, when she woke up, that she wasn't screaming and that Zevran was sound asleep beside her. Even Barkspawn hadn't woken, settled now at their feet. She had dreamed, and they had not been pleasant dreams of sunlight on the water and Zevran's laughter and the whirl of dancing to Antivan songs. They'd been of pain and silence and flickering torchlight. Echoes of those three days, returned to haunt her just when life had begun to smile again.

So she is working, now, keeping her mind off her memories.

"Fine," she says, with a shrug and a smile, and while he doesn't seem to believe her, he doesn't push. "We need to talk," she adds, when he turns to leave, perhaps to go in search of cheese.

"Um, okay."

She wants to sing _Zevran and I are in love_! But it's not nearly as bright and happy as it should be. Drakon's slime covers it up and dims it. So instead:

"I've been talking with Anora all morning."

"Oh. Has that been fun?"

Fynnea shakes her head. "She's... not _horrible_, but does she never _sit_? Or- blink?" He's laughing now, and she smiles. Easier for the both of them to engage in the moment, forget the past. "Anyway. She wants my support for the throne."

"Of course she does. You're the pint-sized firebrand that's taking Denerim by storm!" He's still chuckling, and she's imagining herself two feet tall, stabbing at merchants' ankles. It's amusing, but the diversion fades quickly. Imagining brings those memories again, an open door.

"Anyway, I said I would give it to her, but only under one condition."

His humor fades into a slight frown. "You told Eamon that you were going to put _me_ on the throne. I mean, I'm not _complaining_ about getting off free, but-"

"Will you marry her?"

Fynnea turns on her best, brightest smile in the face of his dawning horror. _Stay in the moment. Smile like you mean it_.

"_What_?"

"Marry her!" Her voice is chipper and light and even though it's all an act, it's a funny enough moment that it soon cheers her to her core. She hopes the feeling lasts.

"_Anora_. My _half-sister-in-law_ or whatever she is. More importantly, _Anora_. _**Mac Tir**_."

Fynnea nods. "Mmhmm. She thinks you're cute, you know." She's twisting Anora's words here, but the Queen _had_ said that Alistair reminded her of Cailan's boyish charms, and teasing him keeps her engaged.

Alistair groans at first, then pauses. "... Cute."

"Mmhmm. And that she agrees that marrying you will solve most of our problems, as long as you let her do most of the day to day ruling things."

"No problem _there_," he agrees, and to her pleasure, he looks like he's actually considering it.

Fynnea has never particularly cared about politics, but she has to admit that Alistair, as charming and engaging as he is, might not make a very good ruler. Anora, however, _will_. But if Alistair is at the queen's side, she's realized, there's a chance that she can press him to unlock the Alienage, to help her people, to do all sorts of things. And now, suddenly, she's interested in politics - at least, what she can get out of it.

"Think about it?" she asks, all hopeful innocence, and while he gives her a strange look, he nods.

She's just about to head back over to Anora's rooms when he asks, "Something happened last night, didn't it?"

She halts, turning to look at him with a light blush creeping in.

"I mean, you seem- _happy_. Which is just- you do remember what just happened to us, right? And it was _worse_ for you. They didn't- they didn't make you go loony, did they? One of those potions they forced down your throat didn't make you snap?" He's lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and she would have laughed if the weight of Drakon hadn't come charging in with his words.

"No," she assures him, smile falling into a frown. She wraps her arms around her waist, and while Alistair doesn't look_ happy_ at the change in her mood, he looks more at ease. "I'm- keeping busy. It's helping. And I've found that if I smile enough, it makes me _feel_ happy enough that those memories don't come back in."

He nods, understanding. "Might be something worth trying," he agrees. "Secret to success, yeah?"

"Yeah, maybe. And last night, Zevran-"

They're interrupted by Arl Eamon and Anora entering the room. Alistair gives her a strange look and she shrugs. _I'll tell you later_.

Because Arl Eamon has his _I've got a plan_ look, and Anora has her eyes fixed on Fynnea.

"There is unrest in the Alienage," the Queen says. "And they've opened the gates."

* * *

She whispers something like, "So this is where I grew up," when they pass through the open gates.

It's worse than when she left. There's blood on the streets and some of the crowded, tiny houses look burned out. There are dead dogs and elves in the street, and by the gates they look like they've been treated just the same. As she leads them in deeper, though, things grow a little more clean, a little less horrible, except that there's a shouting crowd and humans in Tevinter robes standing in front of one of the buildings on the square.

The crowd isn't shouting at the humans, though. They're shouting at Shianni.

Fynnea's pace quickens, and it's only out of a sense of confusion that she doesn't run. Shianni is near the back of the crowd, shouting and gesturing at the Tevinter men. She's saying things like _hospice_ and _plague_ and _never come out_ and _weren't even sick_, but Fynnea only half cares. All she cares is that Shianni is _alive_, and that something is happening. She doesn't care what that something is. She'll fix it. It doesn't _matter_. What matters is-

Shianni turns, startled, at the sound of Fynnea's heavy, fast footfalls, and for a moment, she only stares. The crowd shifts, uneasy at Shianni's silence. Some of the elves recognize her, and she smiles in their vague direction, but then Shianni's hands are on her shoulders.

"Maker's breath, Fynnea. You're _alive_," she breathes.

"Yeah."

"They- they told us that you died at Ostagar. Oh, Fynnea-" and she's in Shianni's arms, eyes closed, inhaling that old, familiar smell, ignoring the acrid stench that clings to everything now. "Cyrion even held a funeral for you. We-"

"Where's dad?"

Shianni takes a deep breath, than says, softly, "These Tevinter shems have him."

Fynnea pulls away to look up (Shianni has always been the slightest bit taller) at her cousin. "... What's going on? What's _happened_? I've been to Denerim a few times before this, but the gate's been locked-"

"After what you did to that bastard- once you left, they locked down the gates. They restricted our food, and they were _punishing_ us for it all, even though you'd taken the blame. They didn't torch the place, thank the Maker, but-" She sighs, shakes her head. "There were riots. And then this _plague_, and now these Tevinter shems are taking people into this 'hospice' of theirs. The people they take, they never come out, and some of them aren't even _sick_. _**Most**_ of them aren't. I keep trying to tell people- that this doesn't _feel_ right, but they won't listen. They're _scared_. The Tevinters have taken Valendrian, too."

Fynnea growls out a curse, and Shianni nods, laughing bitterly.

"I'll fix it," Fynnea promises, drawing herself up.

"I know you will." Shianni's laugh turns genuine for a moment, and then Fynnea is in her arms again, held tight. "How long has it _been_? Your wedding day was- it's been almost a _year_-"

"... Wedding?" Zevran asks, sounding confused and maybe a bit hurt. Fynnea looks over at him with a sheepish smile.

"It, ah, didn't exactly work out. Cake was horrible-"

"And there were too many rapists," Shianni finishes, and her laugh is soothing and sweet because the last time Fynnea had seen her, she was half-broken.

Zevran nods, turning this over. "Sounds like an exciting story."

A little light seems to go on for Alistair, and he cuts in with, "So _that's_ why you slaughtered the whole estate of the last Arl of Denerim!"

Zevran looks surprised and more than a little amused at that. That's right- he wasn't there when she'd made that quip, storming through Howe's estate halls.

"Er, yeah," Fynnea responds. She steps away from Shianni and rolls her shoulders. "_Anyway_. Is Soris okay?"

Shianni nods. "He's at your house right now."

"Go join him. Things might get- messy."

Shianni rolls her eyes, and is about to protest when Fynnea frowns. "... You've changed. You're even stronger than before. Your mother-"

And Fynnea nods, cutting her off. Shianni, with one long look at Fynnea and her companions, retreats back towards home.

Fynnea quirks a brow at her team, then gestures with her head. "Let's figure out what they're doing to my home."

* * *

She sits on her childhood bed once it's all over, holding the slaver documents in her hands, reading them over and over again. She still can't quite believe what she's seen, what she's stopped. Her friends, almost _her family_, led off in chains across the sea. _Valendrian, sold_. And it's because of Loghain.

Fynnea doesn't share Alistair's hatred for the man, can't, no matter how hard she tries. She always remembers that short conversation with him at Ostagar, when he told her that the first Warden that King Maric had brought to Ferelden was a woman. That she shouldn't doubt herself. He'd _respected her_, even though she was a tiny little elf with wavy tattoos and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Anderfels. He'd talked to her for less than five minutes, but he'd respected her.

And yes, since then he has tried to kill them, and when they met again when Arl Eamon arrived with them to call the Landsmeet, he had not seemed quite as respectful, but that moment is clinging to her, haunting her.

It's hard not to hate the man who sold her people into slavery. Almost impossible. But the hatred doesn't come, and her entire body is tense from the contradiction.

It should be so easy to hate him. And yet, she's spoken with his daughter, thought about his actions, and they all make _sense_, in a perverse sort of way. Close ranks, hold the family- the country- together, cast out those that might be a threat. It makes _sense_.

But he sold her people into slavery.

She looks up only when she hears her father's voice, and Cyrion is standing there, smiling wistfully. He's thinner than she remembers, and she's not sure whether it's because of his imprisonment or the long months of grief at her 'death'. When she'd unlocked his cage (and fought past the nausea seeing metal bars brought on), he'd caught her up in his arms and cried, ignoring the rest of the world around him.

"You are so like your mother," he murmurs, moving to sit beside her now. "And so much more. She would be so proud of you."

Fynnea manages a soft smile, setting aside the parchment and leaning against him. His arm goes around her. She's shed her armor in favor of her old clothes, kept neat and folded in her trunk. "Thanks."

He nods, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I- have something for you. Of your mother's."

"You already gave me her boots," Fynnea points out with a small laugh. She hasn't been able to wear them much, since her armor is so heavy, but she's kept them close. Zevran had asked about them, once, early on, and she'd only said they were important. Back then, her family seemed like something... not okay to be talked about. Now, she wants to tell him everything, wants to weave a story and get caught up in it. Maybe then she can forget Drakon for a bit, forget the slavers, forget Loghain, and just see _him_ and _home_.

Right now, he's somewhere in the alienage with Alistair and Wynne, cleaning up the last of the problem spots. She'd become a demon fighting against the slavers, lost herself in the blood and the anger, in a way she _hadn't_ in a long, long time, and when her father's touch had stopped her and she'd whispered _I need to go home_, face growing pale and shoulders slouching, no longer defiant, they'd all parted ways. Zevran had guaranteed her he'd take care of everything. And then she'd walked home in a daze, the anger gone and replaced only with confusion and exhaustion. She doesn't remember exactly what happened between when they tore open the door to the 'hospice' and when she sat down on her bed, except that all her momentary grim cheer had slipped away, and everything had become very red and very painful.

Cyrion is pressing something into her hands, a short scabbard, and after a moment, she draws the long dagger out.

"Fang?" she breathes, and her father nods. "But-"

"My dear, you will put it to far better use than I will. It's meant to be used, not hung on the wall like a relic. I should have given it to you when I left, but... I wasn't ready to lose the both of you."

She flushes. "I-" _I don't use daggers anymore_, but that doesn't _matter_. It's her mother's, and she sheathes it and hugs it to her chest. This homecoming has been hard, sweet and painful. The day of her wedding, all she'd wanted was to run away, to escape, to go on grand adventures. And now she _has_, and all she wants is to curl up in her bed and sleep for years, to wake up and have it all be a dream, except for the assassin who'd wake up next to her.

Her father's smiling still, and he hugs her again. They stay leaning against each other, hearts beating slow, breaths even. _Home_.

Finally, she pulls back and smiles. "So, how are Soris and Valora?"

Cyrion's expression freezes, then falls. "She- was taken. Early. By the Tevinters."

Fynnea flinches. "O-oh. Maker, I'm sorry-"

He shakes his head. "You weren't here."

It's not meant to be an accusation, but it feels like one, and she draws her legs up onto the bed, curling around them.

Cyrion frowns, then shakes his head. "No, let's not focus on the bad that has happened. Fynnea- tell me about this elf you're traveling with." He sounds determined, and a little nervous.

"... ah?"

"He was very protective of you during that fight."

"Was he?" Fynnea slowly looks up, trying to bite back a smile.

"Yes," Cyrion says, and laughs, shaking his head. His laugh soothes her a little, and she uncurls again. "Are you really so surprised?"

"No," she admits, returning his smile, then looking up towards the ceiling. A mobile she and Soris once made out of bits of wood and twine is still hanging above her bed. "He's- I love him."

"... I must admit, I'm glad you've fallen for your elf companion, and not the amusing knight."

"Oh, really? Even though Zevran's Antivan?"

"Ah, I thought I recognized the accent." Cyrion laughs, but nods. "I approve."

"He's an assassin," she points out, watching him, testing him. "... And we met because he tried to kill me."

"_Did_ you now," and his expression does fall a little.

"And since then, he has been the most loyal man I've ever met. And," she finishes, with a bit of a grin, "he loves me, too."

Cyrion stares a moment, then shakes his head, chuckling. "Your mother would be _so_ proud."

"Proud of what?" Zevran asks, the front door of the small house shutting almost silently behind him. Cyrion jumps and Fynnea just laughs.

"We were _just_ talking about you," she says with a grin and a wink, and Zevran puffs himself up.

"But of course- how could you talk of _anyone_ else?"

Cyrion's not entirely sure what to make of him, and he excuses himself, flushing. As he passes Zevran, though, Zevran reaches out and touches his arm. "Have no fears, Ser Tabris. I am the only one allowed to defile your daughter's honor."

"_Zevran_-" Fynnea warns.

Cyrion nods and- _laughs_, looking stunned, amazed, and completely ready to just give up. "Very well. As long as there are grandchildren, yes? For the good of the Alienage."

It's Zevran's turn to look a little stunned, but Cyrion is gone before he can fire off another quip, and Fynnea's laughing at him.

"I haven't told him," Fynnea says once she's calmed down, "that being a Warden sort of- removes children from the equation." Zevran quirks a brow. "I haven't told him a _lot_ of things."

"You've been in here for half the day," he points out, coming to join her on her bed, sitting in the spot Cyrion had so recently vacated. "We've cleared demons out of the Orphanage while you've reconnected."

"Demons? The- well, they're cleared out, right?"

"Indeed. A very nice templar assisted us. But- half a day, and you were only just telling him about _me_? For shame, my Warden. I should come _first_."

"We- actually didn't talk much," she confesses, gesturing to the documents on her other side. "I've been reading those, and staring blankly at walls. He made lunch at some point, and then we finally started talking a few minutes before you came in."

"Perhaps I should- leave, and bring him back to you?"

Fynnea shakes her head. "No. We- we've never had much to talk about. I think we've covered everything we were going to cover."

He quirks a brow, leaning back against the wall behind them. "Not much in common?"

"No. I'm more like my mother, as everybody likes to point out." They've barely spoken of her past - once, she'd mentioned her mother as a jewel. He'd laughed, and mentioned that he could make no such claim. She'd avoided the topic after learning of his childhood. "She's the one who taught me to fight. Dad thinks that- she'd like you a lot. She always liked adventure stories."

He chuckles. "We are that," he agrees. "How- are you holding up?" he adds after a moment's thought. "Coming home to find this- you are, of course, not happy. Are you alright?"

She nods after a moment. "It's- I wish I had come sooner, but I've done what needed to be done. And my family is safe. That's- good." She looks over at the documents again. "I just can't believe that Loghain would _do _this."

Zevran hums, nodding. "And- how are you dealing with what happened earlier?"

_Drakon_. She shrugs. "I'm fine."

"You've barely given yourself a moment to sit still since you woke up," he points out. "I've been watching. And Alistair, he is not doing so well, either."

"Oh, I'm stronger than _Alistair_."

"Of course," he agrees, smirking. "But-"

She nods, cutting him off. "I- it's not the best thing I've ever been through."

"No," he agrees, again, beginning to rub at her lower back.

"I almost panicked when I tried drinking some ale Oghren offered me this morning," she murmurs, frowning. "I was afraid it was one of the poisons they gave me. How pathetic is that?"

"Not pathetic at all, my Warden." He takes hold of her wrist and tugs her back towards him. She freezes, and he quickly lets go with a curse.

She stares down at her wrist.

"I-"

"They restrained you?"

She nods, mutely.

"Then I will not."

"But I _like_-"

"_Liked_," he corrects, gently. "Torture- changes us. Yes?"

"But-"

He shakes his head, firmly. "We can, if you like, push it later. There's a chance it will fade. But it's not something you should be frightened of, on the eve of your great battle."

She sighs and rubs at her wrist, frowning. "Will you-"

"Leave?" She nods. "Because of _this_? No. No, I- No." Zevran smiles, beckoning her close, and she finds she can lean back against him without a problem, even have an arm draped around her waist. As long as it's not _tight_, she feels, she'll be okay. "My Warden," he murmurs in her ear, "I will _never_ leave, if you'll allow it."

Fynnea makes a small, pleased sound, unable to help her grin. She nestles back against him, and he cradles her gently, lips playing along the curve and swoop of her ear. There's that same feeling of _home_ and it's the best thing she's felt since Drakon. Since before, even. "You-" she breathes, "You should help me pierce my ear. So I can wear your earring."

He chuckles, and she can feel it throughout her body. "Oh?"

"So I always have a piece of you with me."

"I like that thought," Zevran purrs. "Let me up, then, and give me the hoop."

"... Now?"

"Why not?" His smile is infectious and she grudgingly leaves his warmth. She has to get up from the bed to retrieve the jewelry from her pack, and he follows. "You look so different in normal clothing," he says.

She flushes. "Good different?"

"I'm a little afraid of somebody putting an arrow through your heart, but that's just habit."

Fynnea nods. "Like in Orzammar."

"Like in Orzammar. Where _did_ you get the dress you were wearing then, for that matter? I've never seen it, before or since."

"It was my wedding dress," Fynnea confesses with a laugh, and grins at his surprised stare. "I was wearing it when Duncan conscripted me, bunched up under the armor I took from the Arl's guards. I kept it- I also kept what was to be my wedding ring." She has the earring and the band stored together, and she pulls both out to show him.

"What _did_ happen to your betrothed?" he asks, plucking up the gold and avoiding the iron carefully.

"He-" It's too hard to explain without context, and as Zevran goes over to the cooking fire and holds the earring out in the flame with tongs, she relates the events of her wedding. Shianni hitting Vaughan in the head with an urn, her own less than enthusiastic reaction to her arranged marriage, the return of Vaughan and waking up in that cold, stone room. Soris's timely appearance, and the slaughter of the guards.

Reaching Nelaros just as his head fell to the ground.

"Was it a relief?" he asks, and she flushes with the littlest surge of shame.

"Yes. I wish he could have lived, knowing now that I would have been a Grey Warden anyway, but- at the time, yes."

She describes the run through the rest of the estate, finally finding Shianni sobbing and Vaughan rather pleased with himself. Zevran guides her back to the bed as she speaks, the now-cooled metal back in his hand, and he kneels on the mattress beside him. She pauses, and he tells her to continue.

"He offered me _money_. To let him keep my cousin, my friends. _**Money**_. I couldn't- _sell_ them."

"Many would have taken the offer, in your circumstances," Zevran murmurs, taking the lobe of her left ear in his hand.

"Even after proving that you could take down his entire estate's guards?" She rolled her eyes. "I tore him apart. I was too late, though. Shianni- Ah!"

There's a surge of fear as pain radiates from her ear, but Zevran's fingers are gentle against her skin, and he's murmuring soft sounds to her. She's able to keep- barely- from lashing out at him. She stops her fist inches from his head, and he's able to touch it with a finger, guide it to her lap. He kisses the piercing. "This is what the Guardian was pressing you about, yes?" he murmurs, turning her back to her story. She nods.

"But Shianni doesn't- blame me. She's just glad we got there at all. And we saved the other women, he hadn't gotten to them yet. And when the guards came, I took all the blame- and Duncan conscripted me before they could drag me off."

Zevran nods. "And the rest is the great tale of Fynnea the Hot-Headed, yes?"

"Yes."

He sits back, chuckling, looking at her, her ear.

"Do we need to apply poultice?" Fynnea asks, lifting her fingers to her ear, feeling the tender, blood-streaked skin and the smooth metal.

"No, it might encourage the skin to knit to the metal. It will take time to heal naturally- you must turn the metal a little every day, to keep your skin from attaching- and you must leave the metal in. But- it looks wonderful." He grins, and she finds herself grinning back, panic gone.

She's still holding the wedding ring in her hand, the metal making circular indentations in her skin. She clutches it tight.

* * *

_AN: _You know, last week I said I wasn't sure of the strength of the chapter... I think the same applies this week. But it gets better! :) Actually, because of the lack of... well, _things_, that happen this chapter (strange, for a Tabris coming home, but that's how it ended up), I'm considering posting up the next chapter early, either later today or maybe on Wednesday. Thoughts?

Oh, and a few more songs I associate with these guys:

_Hardest of Hearts_, Florence + The Machine. (_There is love in our bodies and it holds us together, and it pulls us apart when we're holding each other. We all want something to hold in the night, we don't care if it hurts when we're holding too tight. __There is love in your body but you can't get it out, it gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth/sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face that the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste._)

_Heavy Water_, Jethro Tull. (_She was a southern girl; we stared man to man. I moved like a stranger in this strange land. She was a round hole; I was a square peg. I watched the little black specks running down her leg. Didn't seem to mind that dirty rain coming down... shirt hanging open, she was wet and brown._)

_Illegal Tender_, Louis XIV. (_Well it's a minor altercation despite your hesitation. By all agrees that you will see how we're causing quite a sensation. So publication of needing motivation,_  
_your mother says it's OK outside the subway station. You're taking off your stripes - even your knees are nice. I'll tease you with a knife until you're screaming for your life._)

_Don't Stop_, Patrick and Eugene. (_Don't stop what you do, I won't stop loving you - because I love the things you do! Whatever you do, don't stop_.)

And, to nobody's surprise, _Bad Romance_, Lady Gaga. (_I want your drama, the touch of your hand. I want your leather studded kiss in the sand. I want your love, love love love._)


	8. The Landsmeet & Return to Redcliffe

**Chapter Warnings**: Body modification (tattooing).

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

The Landsmeet isn't going well.

Fynnea's been too caught up reconnecting with the Alienage and helping her family and running on too little sleep between the Archdemon's calls and nightmares of Drakon to sit down the various banns. Alistair and Leliana have done what they could, checking in with the Revered Mother of Denerim about the slaving in the Alienage and stopping in at the Gnawed Noble to check on those banns they've rescued family members of, but it hasn't done much.

They lose the vote.

It's chaos, Loghain calling for their heads and Arl Eamon calling on his troops. She's running and ducking and slamming into the archers she can reach. If they don't get the archers down, there's no way they can close with Loghain and his guards with their heavy armor and live. She runs low and catches them in stomaches and pelvises, knocking them down and falling onto them with quick blades.

Her head spins at the constant run and tumble. The lack of sleep is making her a little bit sluggish, a little bit disoriented, but Zevran is there beside her when she stumbles or takes just a moment too long pulling herself back up. He laughs and steps in front of her, behind her, keeping her moving and protecting her when she leaves herself open. He winks before he slides away into the shadows, then blows a kiss when he reappears across the room when a guard falls. Soon, she's laughing too, taking down guard after guard. It's perverse, how easily they fall. Unnatural. But unnatural blood thrums in her veins.

Nearly a year of constant fighting has honed them to a deadly force.

There's a brief pause and she tumbles out of the mass onto clear floor. When she looks up, she realizes that Loghain Mac Tir is _there_. And nobody else is.

She shouts and dodges a fast downswing of his sword, surprised and on the defensive. He forces her back and she has a hard time blocking and side-stepping every blow. He has decades of experience; she only took hold of her first wooden practice blade fifteen years ago. But they're both a little more sluggish than normal. He's not moving as fast as Alistair does, and that's all that keeps her alive. He, too, has dark circles under his eyes. There are a few moments when they both stumble and gasp for air, and she wants to _laugh_, but then he's driving her back again.

Suddenly, the sounds of their breathing and their footsteps are the only sounds in the room. Their eyes meet. She's struck again by how much she _wants_ to hate him but _can't_, and he swallows hard and stares.

And then it's like the whole of the Bannorn is shouting and two of Arl Eamon's knights step between them, force them apart. Alistair pulls her away from Loghain, asking if she's alright, and Wynne is soaking her in spells that only alleviate a few bruises and the very edges of her exhaustion. Zevran is at her elbow, teasing her about one of the falls she'd almost taken during the battle, breaking whatever magic Loghain has worked. She comes back to herself. She finally takes her eyes off of him, grinning and laughing at Zevran's next ribald joke.

"This is unacceptable!" a female voice is crying. "If this is to be settled by combat, let it be settled _properly_. A duel." It's one of the banns, a woman with dark, short hair. The sister of the templar they found in Howe's basement, she realizes. Alistair had described her.

Fynnea steps forward, despite Alistair's immediate protest and Zevran's soft suggestion to think of her exhaustion. Wynne follows her, taking hold of her elbow, and Fynnea jerks away with a hiss.

"Fynnea, do not be foolish-"

"I can do this."

"You were barely holding your own just a few moments ago." Wynne's face is creased with worry. "Let Zevran handle this. Or Alistair."

Fynnea looks over at Loghain. Ostagar and the Alienage flash before her. _I want to hate you. But I-_And she knows she needs to sort this out- and she doesn't know any other way.

"I can do this. I _have_ to do this." She grins, and there's a manic edge to it. Her exhaustion is forgotten. There's enough adrenaline, enough _need_ to push through her unsteadiness. Her face goes from ashen to rosy and she takes another step towards Loghain.

He's watched her this entire time, silent and thoughtful, a sharp change from his anger and accusations.

"I will fight," she says, voice pitched to carry across the hall. Alistair groans and Zevran looks at her, worried. She glances back at him, smiles, and touches her earring. He manages a smile back.

Wynne sighs and casts a few last spells, buoying her up to as close to full mast as she can manage.

Fynnea steps up to Loghain, stretching and loosening up. "Ready?" Her voice and face are fierce, and Loghain hesitates.

But then the duel begins, and it's move step parry retreat. It's more intense and more thoughtful than full on battle. Each move is calculated. Each attack only lasts until the attacker begins to lose control, and then there's a retreat, a resettling. At first, it's slow. They feel each other out. They learn steps and moves and strategy. But it builds until they're dancing over the stone floor and she's ducking beneath his sword and stabbing up underneath his shield. He's knocking her back and trying to pin her down, trying to disarm her, leave one arm useless. She's maneuvering around behind him, a trick she learned from Zevran, and he's twisting to follow, turning in tight circles to keep up. Eventually, he turns too fast and she sees an opening.

He's too tall for her to take a blade to his throat or a pommel to his head, but she can drop low and strike at his knees with her armored boot, forcing them to buckle, taking him down to her level. From there he tries to block with his shield, but she kicks and catches it with her toe, throwing his shield arm up and out. His weight is on his sword-hand, keeping him up on his knees, but it makes him too slow to strike out at her, and she's able to step on his blade, pinning it.

Her swords are at his throat.

He stares up at her, then laughs, weakly. "Maric once said-" he whispers, pitched so only she can hear, "that a fighter should be judged by his enemies. I don't know if that's more a compliment to me, or you." She blinks, tilting her head in response.

"Kill him!" Alistair shouts, running over to them, towering above them both.

"No!" And there's Anora, back from whatever hallway she'd hidden in during the brawl, rushing to her father's side. "You can't! Alistair-"

"Take his head off," he growls. "You can't let him_ live_."

And then, unexpected, another voice: "There is another option."

Fynnea finally looks up, tearing away from Loghain's eyes. Riordan, the Grey Warden she'd rescued from Howe and then nearly forgotten in the aftermath of Drakon, is crossing the room at a jog. "What is it?"

Because this fight has, of course, solved nothing. She half-knew it wouldn't, but it's given her time. If Zevran or Alistair had fought him, Loghain would already be dead.

"Conscript him into the Grey Wardens," Riordan says, and Alistair lets out a string of recently learned Antivan and dwarven curses.

"Absolutely not!"

"You said," Fynnea thinks aloud, slowly, "that we didn't have what we needed. For the Joining. When I asked you, in Arl Howe's dungeon." She hears Loghain's hissing intake of breath, remembering, no doubt, that it was he who sent Riordan there.

"I checked the warehouse again today. I was wrong. Let him take the Joining- if he dies, Alistair and Ferelden has its revenge. If he lives, we have another sword against the Archdemon."

"_No_." Alistair is right beside her now, and he grips her shoulder hard enough to make her begin to panic. She covers it, gritting her teeth and attempting not to tremble. "_No_, he killed Cailan. He killed _Duncan_. He's hunted us and- and- _Fynnea, he sold the elves - __**your family**__ - into __**slavery**_."

"_I know_!" she shouts, and part of her is right back outside of Redcliffe, yelling at him over a boy and a rose. It's just as mixed up, because she knows she should want to kill this man. This man, who is quietly staring up at her, grave and thoughtful and, in what might be his last moments, _respectful_ again. "But Riordan is right- we need all the help we can get."

"And you'd _trust_ him?"

"I trusted Zevran," she reminds him, and he sneers.

"Zevran was paid. _He_ is _not_."

Fynnea shrugs, trying to dislodge his hand. She can't.

"I want him to take the Joining," she says, voice low and harsh, and Alistair swears again.

"Then I won't- I won't fight. I won't _stand by_. I- _no_, as _king_-"

"As king, you need to survive the battle with the Archdemon," Fynnea points out, the muscles of her throat and neck jumping at his continued firm grip. Zevran is watching Alistair carefully. "And we don't need two out of three Wardens going into battle _unable to sleep_ and _screaming_ at the slightest memory of what's happened to us." Alistair stiffens, then slowly releases her. "Two out of four is better odds," she continues, voice growing softer. "We can't- trust ourselves, right now. What if we panic in that last battle? What if we _lose_ because we don't have _one extra hand_-"

"I won't fight," he says, then turns away from her. His shoulders are tense, and Fynnea sees Anora lifting a few fingers, as if to reach out, before she hesitates and then lets them fall. "... But I will allow this. If you really think it will work-"

"I do."

He laughs, bitterly. "And you're always right. I don't know _how_, but-" Alistair shakes his head, then climbs the dais, staring at the draping fabric that falls around the throne, ignoring them all.

Fynnea returns her gaze to Loghain. "The Joining, then. If you will take it?"

He nods after a span of heartbeats, and she lowers her swords.

Riordan steps forward, taking Loghain's arm and hauling him up. "We will return to Arl Eamon's estate, then. When you arrive, we will perform the Joining." He inclines his head, then escorts the Hero of River Dane from the Landsmeet chamber.

Anora whispers her thanks, and then follows Alistair up the dais steps, coming to stand a few feet to his right. Fynnea takes a deep breath, then turns to face the assembled nobles. "I submit that Alistair, son of Maric Theirin, be crowned King of Ferelden, and that Anora Mac Tir remain as Queen as his wife."

And despite the murmur of the crowd, then the shouts, then the cheers, all Fynnea can process is silence. On the shores of Lake Calenhad, she'd nearly driven Alistair away. Now she's finished the job. She hopes that it's worth it, and that her father will forgive her for freeing the man who nearly doomed the Alienage.

* * *

Loghain survives the Joining.

Alistair didn't come back with them to Eamon's, staying in the palace with Anora (and Bann Teagan, who's stayed to keep an eye on him), and so it's only Riordan and Fynnea in the room when Loghain drinks deep and his eyes roll back in his head. Riordan has the chalice, and so it's Fynnea who rushes forward to catch him, only slowing the fall of the far heavier man.

"Did I do the right thing?" she asks Riordan as trembles beneath the weight of metal, looking up at the other Warden. "Driving Alistair away- I didn't mean to do that."

"Your reasoning was sound, though," Riordan soothes, setting the chalice aside and helping her lift Loghain up and onto one of the low couches in the room. He had refused to shed his armor, and it's hard to carry his weight, but they manage. "Even I have... lingering problems, from my time in Howe's dungeons. They do rear their heads quite nastily, don't they?"

Fynnea nods, looking down at Loghain for a moment before stepping away with a sigh. "And Ferelden will need a king."

"She will," he agrees. "You have acted as befits a Grey Warden. Vengeance should not sway us, only the drive to defeat the Blight."

"You make it sound so easy." And she knows, if she had felt the same as Alistair, that Loghain would be dead. It's only her confusion about the man that's kept him alive.

He laughs. "Do I? It's the most painful thing ever, and historically, we've had comrades, _armies_. And we haven't been on the run. What you and Alistair have accomplished so far- it is extraordinary."

"Do you really think we'll be able to defeat the Archdemon? Just the three of us?"

"With the allies you've recruited, it is... possible. It will depend on how and where it shows itself."

Fynnea nods, slowly, sighing.

"I intend to go out," Riordan continues. "Draw close to the horde. Get an idea of where the Archdemon will strike. I believe it moves towards Redcliffe, though. You should set out there as soon as you can."

She nods again, then waves him away. "Go tell Eamon, and get ready for whatever you're going to do. I'll wait with him."

Riordan murmurs assent. He doesn't ask if she'll be safe, if he can be trusted, before he leaves. She's thankful for that- she doesn't have answers.

She waits there, alternating between pacing and leaning against the wall, for over an hour. Her thoughts range wide. She feels guilty, that Alistair has left, but she also feels reassured. He'll live, even if the rest of them die- she hopes. And she still feels confused whenever she looks at Loghain. He bows to her will now. He'd walked placidly back to Eamon's, Riordan reported to her, waited quietly. She's afraid to sleep, but not because she fears him. She fears Drakon's return. She fears the Archdemon. She fears the final battle, rushing closer and closer.

She's running her fingers lightly along the curve of the golden hoop in her ear when Zevran slips into the room, stepping quietly. She can't help but smile and he returns it, sliding up next to her and draping an arm lightly around her waist. She leans against his shoulder.

"He's survived?" Zevran murmurs, and she nods. The rise and fall of Loghain's chest is even and obvious; he didn't need to ask. But she's glad to hear his voice. She closes her eyes.

"There is something between you," he comments, voice light but fingers tensing along her waist.

"Something," Fynnea responds. "I don't- know."

"It was interesting to watch the two of you. He could not take his eyes off of you." Zevran chuckles. "As it should be. But- it was not because of hatred, or lust."

"The two you expected?"

"The two that are most common, no matter who's involved. He seemed more... awed, perhaps?"

That's still a surprise to her, but she nods, because she knows it's true.

"When I was assigned to kill you, I met him, you know. Very briefly. He barely acknowledged me. At the time, I thought perhaps he did not... like to associate with lowlives such as myself? But I wonder." His fingers have relaxed and are now drumming a rhythm. "Perhaps he was reserved because he did not _enjoy_ the thought of sending me after you. Or perhaps he knew I would die."

"We talked before Ostagar. For maybe five minutes. At _most_. It was- an interesting conversation."

"Oh?"

"He said I was pretty for a Grey Warden."

Zevran snorts. "In my experience, Grey Wardens are _all_ quite attractive. Riordan and Alistair could have their pick, if they chose."

Fynnea laughs. "If Alistair knew that..."

"He would no longer have to _joke_ about lampposts in winter," Zevran agrees.

Fynnea's laugh turns into a little snicker, then fades. "But he also told me to never think that I was less, because I was a woman. Or because I was young. It was so unexpected. I mean, I had just horrified King Cailan and he _knew_ I'd killed an Arl's entire household. And I'm an _elf_. But he- respected me."

Zevran hums, thinking. "And he still does."

"Maybe he hates me because of it? Just like I'm so confused about _him_. What he did- I _should_ hate him, and yet-"

"You respect him," Zevran finishes with a note of dry humor. "We are all very twisted up, yes? Us, with all of our demons."

Fynnea is about to respond when Loghain groans, shifting on the couch. Zevran moves to leave, but she covers his hand with hers. She wants him here. He's the best at steadying her, just as he's the best at spinning her up.

Loghain opens his eyes, and for a long moment stares up at the ceiling. But then he moves, pushing himself up unsteadily. He sits with his hands braced on his knees, taking deep breath after deep breath before, finally, he looks up at Fynnea.

He seems surprised to see Zevran there. "You keep your assassin close," he comments.

Fynnea just nods.

"... I just saw-"

"The Archdemon," Fynnea supplies. "You'll dream of it. The darkspawn taint means we can sense them- hear them."

Loghain frowns. "... That's how Duncan knew it was a Blight."

Fynnea nods again, silent, watching.

Loghain closes his eyes, jaw tensed. He sits that way, thinking, _processing_, until finally he shakes his head and stands. "I see," is all he says.

"We're leaving for Redcliffe, probably in the morning. We're going to march fast. You should rest- and eat. We think the horde will be there. If it is..."

He nods. "... I- thank you. For sparing me. I didn't expect it of you."

"I make a habit of requisitioning useful people who try to kill me," Fynnea says with a little laugh, and she feels Zevran straighten, preen a little. Loghain just raises his brows.

"Indeed. All the same-"

"I don't _like_ you," she interrupts. "And I can't _forgive_ you, not with what happened at Drakon. Or in the Alienage. But- I trust you. I make a habit out of that, too- trusting people when I shouldn't. Don't disappoint me, Teyrn."

Loghain nods, a sharp, military gesture, but his voice is soft when he says, "Warden, I see in you a strength I've seen nowhere since Maric died. A perhaps mad, definitely uncontrollable strength, but a strength all the same. I won't let you down."

"Good. I hear I have a _wicked_ temper when I'm disappointed." She grins, Zevran laughing soft at her ear.

* * *

They leave for Redcliffe before the sun even rises. On the way to the Landsmeet, Fynnea and her companions had stayed apart from what troops had marched with Eamon. Now, they're in the thick of them, planning, hoping, fearing. There are no indolent afternoons where Alistair (who did not see them off) lies in the road unwilling to move and Fynnea climbs trees. There are no quiet nights where she can lie by the fire with only Barkspawn.

When they make camp for the day, Fynnea sits for long hours with Eamon and Loghain, discussing contingencies and strategies. Loghain does most of the work, while Fynnea just listens and chimes in with her wild ideas that, sometimes, the older men even accept. But she's not a soldier. She doesn't know how to command an army. She only knows how to lead a ragtag band of adventurers that somehow now have a chance of saving the world.

The messengers went out from Denerim the night Riordan left to the Dalish, the Circle, Orzammar. They will hopefully meet the army in Redcliffe, but they may be too late, even with the messengers racing across the country on fast Orlesian horses. Ferelden is small, but not crossable in a day. _Those_ fears are what keep her up at night when the nightmares don't. Even Zevran's urgings, his kisses and soft words, his pleasures that relax her utterly, can't soothe her every night, and she grows weaker. Her face is stuck on ashen now; no amount of activity or excitement can bring back her flush.

It takes thirteen days to reach Redcliffe, and they are marching hard. A day out, she stumbles on the road and falls. Wynne demands that they stop the march, but they _can't_. Eamon argues that they must press on. His people, after all, are the ones in danger. But Fynnea is incapable of fighting, and Loghain and Wynne pull Eamon aside. Soon, the army marches on without them.

Leliana is forcing stale bread into Fynnea, and she's protesting, fighting, saying that she can handle it, it was just a stone in the road. Zevran shakes his head, having none of it. It's the middle of the day, and the darkspawn are near, but they make camp. Wynne is threatening sleep spells, but Fynnea is fighting that, too. She doesn't _want_ to be trapped in her nightmares, and if her sleep is spelled, that's exactly what will happen. Morrigan agrees - it's a technique she's used to great effect in battle.

Sten takes his turn lecturing her, reminding her that an exhausted soldier is a dead soldier, and worth nothing. Barkspawn is whining in agreement. Oghren offers a nightcap, but Fynnea nearly faints at the smell of booze and he has to drink it himself, grumbling only a little. It's Leliana and Zevran that manage to get her to lie down, in a patch of sun with her head on Zevran's lap and Leliana undoing her armor and gently massaging her tense, tired muscles. Fynnea still squirms, protesting that she _won't_ sleep, she _can't_, Eamon will need them.

Loghain towers above her, blocking out the sun, and scowls. "You're acting like a petulant child."

"I _am_ a petulant child," she shoots back, pouting for effect.

"No, you are a skilled warrior. You're honestly scared of a few nightmares?"

"You don't underst-"

"Yes, I do. Do you think pushing out the Orlesian occupation was all happy dances?" He shakes his head. "Deal with it." And he walks off, making a sound of frustration and- disgust?

It certainly weakens her resolve.

"My Warden," Zevran murmurs, "would it help if I ordered you to sleep?"

Leliana laughs softly, and Fynnea manages a blush through her pallor. Zevran smiles. "Um. M-maybe-"

"Then _sleep_." That night outside of Haven fills her mind and she smiles and relaxes, and when Leliana begins to sing a soft lullaby, she drifts off.

* * *

The exhaustion helps. She sleeps through the day and the following night without much more than a few brief feelings of unease in otherwise benign dreams. At some point, she wakes to Zevran lifting her and carrying her into the tent they now share (no pretense of him having his own). He smiles down at her, repeats his order, and settles her down on her bedroll. She remembers vaguely that he joins her, and that his body is warm against hers.

* * *

She shouldn't have slept.

She feels better, stronger than she has since before the Landsmeet, and her mind is quicker, but when they draw close enough to Redcliffe to smell the flames and the darkspawn, she knows it doesn't matter. There's no sign of Eamon's army. They clear Redcliffe as best they can, then race towards the castle, hoping against hope that they made it behind the walls. There aren't enough dead on the ground to be the army, but the darkspawn could have taken them. There are so many, all around, and yet-

"This doesn't seem like enough to be the horde," Loghain shouts as they run for the castle gates. "Shouldn't there be more?"

"I- probably. I don't _know_. But- I don't hear the Archdemon." She frowns and runs faster.

They make it into the courtyard and she wants to _cry_ when she sees the guards. They call down that Eamon is safe and that Riordan has rejoined them just a few hours before. And then chaos, again, the darkspawn swarming and Fynnea fighting until they finally drop the portcullis down and seal off the castle- for now.

They rush into the meeting hall, where Eamon is pacing and talking in low tones with Riordan, whose expression is drawn. Both men look up at Fynnea's entrance, and Riordan smiles, stepping down from the dais and bowing to her. She waves him up.

Eamon says, "Are you feeling better, Warden?" Their relationship is strained at best, with his son's blood on her hands, but he's visibly relieved to see her.

"I am." She tries to stop the flush of shame and mostly succeeds. "I apologize, again. If I had been here-"

"We were able to handle the evacuation," he assures, "and Riordan has only just arrived."

"I'm afraid I bring grim news, Fynnea."

Fynnea inclines her head, bracing herself.

"The horde moves not towards Redcliffe, as I had thought- it's striking towards Denerim."

Loghain curses, and Fynnea stiffens. _Cyrion- Soris- Shianni- __**Alistair**_- "Then we march to Denerim."

"The Archdemon is with them, and they are moving fast," Riordan continues. "When I encountered them, they were only a few days out. If they continue moving at the same pace, I fear their forward bands and scouts reach the capital in just over two days. The whole of the horde will not be far behind."

"Maker's breath," Wynne breathes, leaning heavily on her staff.

"Then-"

"We march tomorrow," Eamon cuts in, before she can rally the troops for a midnight strike. "You may have rested your fill, but our troops have not. And if we wait the night, the chances of our allies arriving is much higher. Take the night to prepare yourself."

"We can't reach the capital in _time_-" She's shaking in place, tense and fearful and seeing already the darkspawn tearing through the gates to the Alienage, her family barely armed, barely defended. She sees the darkspawn storming the palace and tearing Alistair to pieces, overwhelming him in his father's house.

"But we will," Eamon says, quietly. "Because we must. Denerim's walls should be able to hold them off for a while, but- we will be entering an active battlefield."

Riordan is watching her, and she turns to him. "Are you- okay?" he asks, and he's asking both about the fear and anger in her eyes as well as her collapse on the road.

She can only shrug, though, because while she's rested, she's not _okay_. This isn't _okay_.

"Because you will need to be at your best in the final battle. We have our duty."

Fynnea shrugs again. Her voice is bordering on flat when she responds, "I'll do my best. And with my allies-"

He gives her a strange look, and she quiets. "No, it is up to us."

"... Just us?" Her heart falls again, another inch.

He frowns. "I- we must talk. Fynnea, Loghain, accompany me?"

* * *

Fynnea's world is dropping out from beneath her feet.

She wants to scream _No, NOT ME_, but she knows that this is her _duty_. She can't turn from it. If Alistair is already dead when they arrive, there will be only three Wardens in all Ferelden. One of them must die. She has a feeling that it will probably be her. Her throat is tight and her head is spinning. From the moment of her Joining, she's known she has a duty, an obligation, a role, but it's never seemed this close and all-encompassing. It's always given her freedom and wiggle room and adventures before, things she'd craved as a child, but _this_-

"If you fall, Riordan, I will attempt the final blow," Loghain says, stepping forward. "... As an act of redemption. My time has come, at any rate."

Fynnea turns to him, pulling herself away from the stretch of wall she's been staring at. "Loghain-"

"And _you_, little firebrand, will stay out of my way when the moment comes." Their relationship is still a strange and strained dance, but somehow, over thirteen days of marching, he's become integrated into the group. He has earned the grudging respect of everybody, save perhaps Morrigan, and has stood at her side. He is sharp with her, sardonic and grim, but that strange awe and respect is there, and his words often border on the affectionate. And she still can't hate him. She still can't really, truly want to punish him. And here he's _offering_.

"I-"

Riordan sighs. "We will do as we must. If the opportunity presents itself, take it- we may not get another chance."

Fynnea nods, mutely.

"We- will not likely have a chance for reflection on the warpath. Take time to yourselves tonight. Set- things in order." Riordan's gaze is fixed on Fynnea when he speaks, and there it is again, that urge to scream and rail and run. Run to Antiva. Take Zevran and _go_, because otherwise- she's just _found_ him! And he's just found _her_. It's not _fair_.

War isn't fair, she reminds herself, and this is _war_, not a tale of adventure. She is going to die. So is her family. All she can hope for is that- that they'll _win_, because that's all there is left.

"Very well," she hears herself saying, and then she's all but running to the room Eamon has given her. Her head is pounding. Everything changed in the Landsmeet chamber, in Denerim, and it's spiraling out of control. A year of adventure, and now this twisting, wrenching climax. Gone are the days, weeks, where she could forget the tragedies of her family, forget the horrors of Ostagar, forget the bad and live in the moment. There is only duty, and her room feels heavy for it, feels filled with it. And there, standing in front of the fire, is-

Morrigan.

"Get out," Fynnea growls. "I don't have time for this right now." She doesn't know what the witch wants, but they haven't interacted much since Lothering. Before things became so complicated, they'd had a perverse glee in making Alistair squirm in common, and a love of battle. But Morrigan's cynicism and bitterness quickly set her apart from the rest of the group.

"Are you so sure?" Morrigan responds, voice light, and she walks to Fynnea with a slight sway of her hips. Fynnea just glares, arms crossed over her chest. "I have- an option for you. That will allow you to live."

"You were listening?"

"I already knew."

Fynnea tenses, keeping herself in check. "I'm not running." _No matter how much I want to_.

"Of course not. No, I offer-"

"I don't _care_," Fynnea growls, shouts almost. "I don't- I don't want to _hear_ maybes! I just- _get out, Morrigan_." She's sure the option won't be a real option, will be something she can't do, and she doesn't want the knowledge that there was an _almost_ in there. Her blood boils at the thought. That she could have _done something_. She _can't_ afford to know it. Because if she does, she'll take the option, no matter the consequences. She'll abandon her duties. And she- can't. She already ran from her family once.

"All I offer-"

"_GET. OUT_."

Morrigan holds up her hands, sighing. "Very well, then. Suffer your fate and don't try to change it. 'Tis your choice, I suppose."

And then she's gone.

Her first reaction is to grab something heavy and breakable and throw it into the wall. But she's not feeling _anger_ so much as _grief_. Fynnea sinks into the seat before the fire, the bones and muscles of her face screaming with the effort of holding back tears that refuse to fall and that she refuses to let fall. She stares at the licking flames, imagining how they'll dance in Denerim. The city will probably be on fire when they arrive. The darkspawn love burning their battlegrounds down. There will be death. Zevran- might not even survive the battle, anyway. They always knew they might die. Why are things different?

Because now there's a one in three chance that she will, without a doubt, have to sacrifice herself. And when she dies, it won't be because she falls in battle. It won't be because she _loses_.

It will be her reward for _winning_.

"My Warden?"

Oh. _There_ are the tears.

Zevran comes around the side of the chair, sitting down on the armrest and looking at her with- his lips are pressed together, and it's like he _knows_. She mumbles something about her family, and he nods gravely. She's going to leave it like that, explain away her tears as only about her father, her cousins, but he doesn't let her.

"I presume Riordan did not draw you and Loghain into the traditional eve-of-battle Warden orgy?"

"There's no such thing," she gets out, unable to help the small, weak laugh. It works its way out past the fear and devastation.

"No? Why is it that all these rumored orgies never _happen_?" He pouts, then slides into the seat next to her, shifting until, somehow, he has her in his lap. His arms wrap - loosely, of course - around her middle, and he presses a kiss to the back of her neck. She shivers, pulling off her gauntlets to rub at her face, push the tears aside.

"Don't know," she mumbles, words thick with tears and mucous. "'s a shame."

"Indeed." He begins to work at unbuckling her pauldrons. "... Would it make it easier if I said that I had heard everything Riordan told you two?"

She'd almost managed to stop crying, but that undoes it again, and he's forced to leave her armor for the moment to cradle her back against him. He strokes her hair, kisses at her piercing, does everything he knows to make her calm. He's never seen her _distraught_ before, with the anger all melted away. She'd come close in Ostagar, but it had been short lived and nowhere near this intense.

"Or," he whispers, "we could pretend that I did not. I can- I will go along with either, my Warden. Fynnea."

"I'm going to die." It's somewhere between a wail and a whisper, and all he can do, because he can't hold her tight, is return to working at her armor. She helps with fumbling fingers, until she's free and can press against him, curl up against him, bury her face in his neck.

"If I understood it correctly, you might _have_ to die, but you might not."

She whimpers agreement.

"And Morrigan has a proposition."

"Oh, you heard that, too," Fynnea mumbles, weakly, and he nods.

"But of course!" His laugh dies on his lips. "... Why did you turn her away like that?"

"I- because I have a job to complete. Whatever she's offering- it'd be like running away. And I can't."

"Even though you want to?"

"Even though." Fynnea is miserable, a pile of trembling, sobbing child in his lap, and he's being so patient, stroking her hair and her skin, speaking softly. She's both relieved and furious that he's not crying. She couldn't handle it if he was, but- she can't handle the idea that he's unaffected. "And besides- I have to go. For everybody."

"If I could," he says, and his voice is suddenly full of such controlled sadness that she could _break_, "I would sacrifice myself in place of you."

It would be so easy just to stay lying across his lap all night, a mess of tears and whimpers, but she pulls herself up and out of the chair with a deep breath. "I know," she whispers, kissing him. "I- stay here. Just a moment."

Her pack is by the door, and she fumbles with the straps and buckles holding it closed, and again in its interior. She can feel Zevran watching her, knows he's leaning over the armrest. She pulls out her prize as quickly as she can and returns to him, looking down at him with grave but wondering eyes.

She holds her wedding ring out to him.

She'd already planned on giving it to him on the eve of the battle, but now, when she might never come back, it's heavy with symbolism and need. She'd planned a speech, but the words refuse to come. She just presents it to him and watches, quietly, as he reaches out to take it.

"Fynnea," he says, so softly that she can barely hear. He stares at the roughly shaped iron, then back up to her. She nods. He slips it onto his finger, swallowing hard, and she can see the tears threatening in both their eyes.

She smiles at him to hold them off. "Something to remember me by."

"Does- this mean we're married? In Ferelden?" He's managing a little grin, echoing her words from the back streets of Denerim, and she's laughing.

"Oh, no, I hope not!" she echoes in return, then adds, "Unless you want to be."

That little grin widens, and he stands, holding his hand out between the two of them. "I confess to not liking the word," he says, slowly, "but the sentiment? I believe I can live with it. Quite well, actually."

Her smile is growing in response to his, and she lets out a long, deep breath. She can't forget the sword hanging over her, but right now, there are other things. Other moments. And maybe she _won't_ die. But even if she does-

She leans in and kisses him.

She has this.

He hums against her mouth, then swings her up into his arms, and the movement is so fast that she doesn't have time to panic at the momentary tightness of his grip. He carries her to the bed and deposits her onto it with a laugh. He'd already closed the door when he had snuck in, and so he wastes no time in drawing her sweat-soaked linens from her body. "If," he says, thoughtfully, "we are married, then it follows that we must break in the wedding bed, hm?"

"Tonight?" she asks, shivering at his touch, watching as he leans back to pull off his leathers. They haven't had time enough together since Taliesen's death to relearn each other's bodies, but she's still thrumming with sadness and fear, somewhere in the background.

"When else?" he whispers, pausing to look down at her. That sadness escapes and floods her body for a moment, but then he smiles and purrs, in his best Antivan lothario voice, "We can cry and wail together. It will be _romantic_, yes? Your mother would approve."

* * *

Fynnea grins and laughs at that, and doesn't mind in the slightest when he crawls up along her body, leaving kisses as he goes.

Fynnea traces the patterns on his back with light fingers, still languid and happy, thoughts of the coming days quiet. "Mm... that time, when you were talking to Alistair..."

"Which time? There have been many." He props himself up on his elbows, making his back curve and catch the light. She leans over to kiss at one brilliant spot.

"About the tattoos."

"Aah, that long ago. What about it? You've already seen all of mine, I can assure you."

She smirks. "I know." Her fingernails scratch over a few raised scars along one of the inked curves. "You also tried to talk him in to getting one."

"Oh, yes, with the massage. The oil."

"Do you actually have the things to do it?"

"No oil," he says, sadly.

"But the needle? The ink?"

Zevran thinks a moment, then nods. "I do have the ink. The needle would not be hard to fashion. I suppose I could filch it from Wynne's room, if it comes to it. Why?"

Fynnea pulls herself away from his skin enough to look at him. "I want you to add something to the tattoo on my face. I mean- if you want to. But I want you to."

He's already up and pulling on some of his shed clothing. "I'd be honored."

He's away for only ten minutes at the most. When he returns, he pulls her to the floor with him. He mixes a small pot of dark brown ink, humming to himself and stroking the marks on her face as he tries to match the color. "I bought the materials from the Dalish," he admits. "In case Alistair ever _did_ take me up on the offer." He stirs the pigment a few last times to check the consistency, then sets about cleaning her face with gentle strokes of a wet cloth that smells of elfroot and other herbs known only to the Dalish. "I think I like this use better, though."

Fynnea smiles up at him, settling onto the pillow she'd brought down with her. It's like an old story, the warriors adorning themselves before the dawn of the battle, he with metal, she with ink. Her mother would be proud of so many things, it's almost overwhelming, and it's all that's filling her head when Zevran makes the first tap of the needle.

She twitches, but he is hovering above her, fingers only resting lightly on her face between strikes. He's not holding her down, and it keeps the impulse to fight low. They'd inserted sharp needles into her at Drakon, and the memory wars with the softness of Zevran's touches. Her control wins out, but it's hard, and she tenses. Zevran takes a moment to stroke along the curve of her breast and waist to help her relax, then resumes creating the line.

There had been moments that night when he moved above her and inside of her, where she'd come close to panic. Moments where his weight had grown too heavy. But he was and is attentive, responding to the slightest sound or clench of her teeth, working to keep her calm. He doesn't seem to mind it. In fact, he murmurs after stilling a particularly violent thrash that almost drives the needle into her eye, when he has the point set aside and her in his arms, he _enjoys_ it. It keeps him focused. It keeps him from getting caught up by his _own_ demons. Between the two of them, he can hurt her and she can _be_ hurt and their demons are forced to wait on the outside of them.

When they resume, after her heartbeat has slowed, there's a moment where things click over. She still tenses and occasionally has moments of fear, but his care and the intensity even in the softest of his touches start lighting the same responses she used to have. She trusts him, and the trust soon overtakes the memories. Her Reaver blood thrums and makes her float a little outside of herself. Her eyes unfocus as she smiles up at him, shifting and curling her toes.

He laughs, quietly, and it's a welcome sound.

He works methodically, with more skill and less cursing by far than Shianni had so many years ago. It _hurts_, and it hurts even more when he works over the curve of her cheekbone and the plane of her temple, but he knows from experience how deep to push. He doesn't have to redo marks. He doesn't slip. He works quickly enough that he leaves a throbbing trail but no screaming pain. It feels _good_, in its own way, just like the strikes from the scabbard had felt amazing even when she'd limped for a day afterwards. It's acceptable pain. It's _more_ than acceptable; it's invigorating, enchanting, wonderful. It's _him_.

When she goes into what might be the final battle of her life, she'll feel him no matter how far away he is.

* * *

_A/N_: A long chapter, but quite possibly my personal favorite. (It's either this or Orzammar. :) ) Loghain and Fynnea have a very, very odd relationship in my head - and it'll be important in the last chapter. Poor Alistair, though! At least my version of Anora isn't too displeased with him - he has that.

I did change the timing of some of Loghain's dialogue, but I think it fits better where I've placed it, at least for Fynnea's story.

No songs this time around! The last chapter will be going up on **Friday**, as usual, and then the epilogue will follow next **Wednesday**. (And then, if I can get a few more scenes out, there'll be a Sten/Brosca one-shot up sometime soon after that!) _ASNAWOH_ is in progress, but I'm not going to start posting it until I have more of a buffer of chapters built up.


	9. The Final Battle

**Chapter Warnings**: _KNIFEPLAY_. Body modification (scarification).

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

* * *

**Temper, Temper**

"What do you mean, I'm not coming with you?"

They've fought back the darkspawn as far as the gates of Denerim, and Eamon's men are holding the line, rebuilding barricades. They're trapped in the city with the remaining darkspawn, now, and the Archdemon who is sweeping overhead in sharp arcs. Zevran is staring her down. Her head is screaming, and this is the _last_ thing she needs. But it's the most important thing in the world.

"You're going to stay here," she says, and her words are soft enough to almost be lost in the shouting and the crash of burning timbers. "You'll take command, and-"

Zevran shakes his head. "No. No, I am fighting _at your side_," he says, sweeping his hands out away from his body. "I refuse to leave you. I will _not_."

She's almost taken aback by the anger, the _protectiveness_ in his eyes, but it's matched by her own warring desires. She wants him at her back, and yet- she can't have him with her. She can't make him watch her die. And she can't have him throw himself at the Archdemon to sacrifice himself when it will do _nothing_.

"I need you to stay here, Zevran. I-"

"_I will storm the Black City at your side_, Fynnea," he shouts, and he so rarely raises his voice that it stuns her. "Never- never doubt that. _Ever_."

"I need you to stay here,"she repeats, weakly.

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, and she can tell he wants to keep fighting. But she won't break, and he knows that.

She looks away, unhooking a sheath from her belt and holding it out to him. He looks at the long dagger suspiciously.

"My mother's," Fynnea murmurs. "Adaia's. I-"

"No. This is yours."

"I want you to use it for this battle," she presses. "It- she'll keep you safe. She's named Fang. I never had a chance to use her, and she won't help me now, but _you_-"

He looks between her and the blade and then takes it. She can see his hand trembling. "I doubt your mother would approve of _this_."

Fynnea laughs, weakly. The Alienage is burning just like the rest of Denerim. She swears she can hear the sap of the Vhenadahl exploding in the distance, even though she knows that's impossible. "You didn't know my mother," she responds.

"She seems like a remarkable woman," he agrees, stepping closer. "You must tell me about her. Later."

And she nods. "Of course." The lies are thin and empty, but they're all that they have. She rises on her toes to kiss him, and he traces his thumb over the still-swollen skin of her tattoos. She hisses, but smiles as she pulls away.

"Come back to me," Zevran whispers, and she has to turn away because his expression is tearing her heart into shreds.

* * *

She's not herself through the battle of Denerim.

She's fighting fierce and strong, and Loghain, Wynne, and Leliana can follow her orders, predict her movements. She's somehow calling in her allies when they're most needed and least at risk. They're pushing forward through the Market, through the Alienage, with little trouble. But she's not _there_. She's buried somewhere deep in her body, and it's her body channeling her anger and grief into her weapons. She's not overwhelmed by it. She's not _controlled_ by it. And it's all because she's not there for it.

Generals fall before her blades. Ogres topple. She sends Shianni and Soris and Cyrion, without any tears or anything more than a _yes_ at their being alive, back behind her advancing line, and they go without much protest. They've both seen the look in her eyes before, at least parts of it. They've seen the anger and power when she killed Vaughan and all his men, and they've seen her honed determination when she took down the Tevinter slavers. There's that new element there, now, that control, along with the raised red and brown line curling over the side of her face and the lack of a tanned Antivan assassin as her side, that make them step back. She passes, and barely marks when the bridge behind them is destroyed by the Archdemon except to change her tactics.

They press on through the Palace district, and she spares only a glance wondering if Alistair, Teagan, and Anora were able to get out before the horde arrived. And then they're pushing up the stairs through waves of emissaries and shrieks, into the courtyard of Drakon, and that's where _she_ begins to return.

Dragon thralls and grunts and emissaries and alphas fall before them. They're unstoppable. The Legion of the Dead is all around her, and the mages are following close behind. Some of their number have dropped back to tend to injuries, some have fallen, forgotten by the forward push, but they're holding together.

They climb the tower.

Leliana is the one to unlock chests filled to the brim with poultices, but Fynnea doesn't accept them, directing them to her soldiers instead. She doesn't _trust_ them, doesn't trust herself to be able to use them. She keeps them from exploring the torture room, keeping them moving even though Leliana complains that they're likely missing equipment. Loghain's glare quiets her.

Up and up and up to the top of the tower, and the scars and memories of Drakon are burning through her. _Get over it_ is repeating over and over in her mind, first in her memory with Loghain's voice, then with hers and Zevran's. She has to get over it. If she's going to die, she's going to die with her blades buried in the Archdemon, not trapped by genlock snares, not pinned by emissary prisons.

She knows Riordan is dead. It's down to one out of two, either her or Loghain, and while Loghain is strong in battle, he isn't fast and he doesn't take down the most enemies. He's a rock around which they orbit. So it's one out of two, leaning her way.

She opens the door to the roof.

She's herself by then, but she still isn't sure what happens. She only knows she ducks and weaves and strikes, spells exploding all around her, the screams of soldiers ringing in her ears as blue flames lick at them from the Archdemon's maw. She rolls and tumbles like Zevran taught her after Orzammar, moves fast and low, takes advantage of her short height and lighter armor. They clear the roof of everything but the Archdemon as fast as they can, and only then do they begin to press the Old God, trying to trap it between walls of sharp steel and ceilings of ice. So many people draw its blood that the roof is awash in it, their feet slipping, unable to gain traction. The Archdemon seems to laugh, barely affected by its myriad injuries, flying up and coasting over to a secondary tower that they can't reach. The mages continue to fling spells until the darkspawn burst through the doors, and the frenzied rush to clear the roof is on again, soldiers sliding and falling and _screaming_ as the Archdemon's blood finds its way into their skin.

It's Leliana who draws her attention to the ballistae, and they rush to one of them, beginning a shoot-tension-reload-shoot-tension-reload rhythm while Loghain guards them. The Archdemon thrashes, but its fire can't reach them and soon, just as the remaining darkspawn fall, it flies back to engage them up close.

Her head is spinning and all she can think of is _I have to do this right, for him, for everybody_. Alistair, Zevran, Cyrion, Valendrian, Adaia- everybody is clamoring for victory in her mind. Every bit of anger she's ever felt, every drop of wounded pride, fills her and is turned into focused, calm power. Her fear drains into the same sense of _Yes_, and by the time the Archdemon staggers, she's almost at peace. She's determined. The Archdemon will fall, and she will not run. She will not panic. She will not let her anger at losing Zevran, at losing everything she's found since stepping out of the Alienage, overpower her.

She's riding high atop the beast that is her temper when she rushes forward, dropping her blades in favor of the two-handed greatsword lying on the stone before her. She raises the heavy weapon high and doesn't hesitate before bringing it down to sever the beast's head. She feels the rush of victory and the deathly pull of the Archdemon's collapse. She falls forward into oblivion, her last thought how wonderful the throbbing of her tattoo feels against her rapidly chilling skin.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Fynnea wakes up.

The sky is a riot of colors, the smoke and clouds reflecting red, orange, yellow while the early evening sky peeks through in bursts of rich, velvety blue. She can't see the stars for all the fire below her, but the painted heavens above her are more than enough. She's on her back in a pool of cooled, sticky blood that smells of rot and ashes. She can feel it in between the joints of her armor and smeared and dried upon her face.

She's awake.

She's alive.

The hum of darkspawn has quieted. She never thought she'd hear _silence_ again, and while it's not close, it's approaching. It's close enough to count. She breathes deeply.

There's the sound of talking, the sound of dying, the sound of pained groans. It's all around her. She hears the creak of heavy plate. The murmured words of healing spells. Footsteps.

She's alive.

Slowly, she rolls onto her side, gains purchase on the slippery, sticky stone, and pushes herself up to her knees. Every inch of her aches, and there are hundreds of points of brilliant pain. Her cheek throbs. Darkspawn blood, Archdemon blood, on her cheek, dried on her still-raw tattoo, she thinks, but she's immune. She's a Grey Warden. She's supposed to be dead.

There's a cry that seems far away, and then running, and a weak but familiar spell running down her spine and soothing those points of pain. She looks over in the direction of the shouting, and Leliana and Wynne are stumbling towards her, exhausted and blood-streaked and _alive_. Leliana slides to her knees in front of her, drawing her hard into her arms. Fynnea tenses and Leliana releases, but not before she plants kisses over the few clear spots of her skin.

Wynne offers her a hand up and Fynnea takes it, releasing a shaky, strained breath. It's hard to stand. Her ribs ache, her lungs burn, her legs protest- but that's normal, after long hours of pushing and pushing and pushing. She ignores it as much as she can, her eyes instead scanning the roof and seeing-

Loghain.

He's standing by the edge of the roof, looking out over the city, and she breaks away from Wynne's light, supporting grip to stagger towards him.

"_What happened_?" she coughs, and her voice is only loud enough to get him to turn. He looks relieved and maybe a little guilty, but it's hard to tell because she's falling forward. He manages to catch her before she hits the ground, and she repeats, "_What happened_?" before she even begins to steady herself again.

He frowns, then says, "Zevran told me to follow Morrigan, that night in Redcliffe."

"Zevran?"

"After I left Riordan, I saw Morrigan leaving your room. Your assassin slipped from the shadows and had the audacity to give me an order."

"What-"

"Morrigan said that there was a- ritual. That would allow neither of us to die. I performed it."

It's her turn to frown, the expression deepening as she tries to stand and pain lances through her again. "W- I don't-" she croaks.

"I intended to die in your stead," he says, slowly, voice dropping in pitch. "It was- the least I could do. But I also knew that you would never allow me to and would likely strike the last blow before I could stop you. Which, I might add, is exactly what happened."

"_Why_."

"Because my story is over, and I deserved to die when you won the duel. Ferelden needs its hero, not its destroyer." He shrugs, armor creaking and grinding. "... So I did what I could, and it has, apparently, worked. The Archdemon is dead. And you have lived."

She's about to press him about _what_ kind of ritual this was, anyway, when there's more shouting from the direction of the main stairs. There's something that sounds like an argument, and then a gold and brown blur is darting out from the doorway and pulling her into his arms with a sob and a hiss of, _"Never_ leave me behind again, my Warden."

"Never," she agrees, and sags against him, exhaustion catching up with her once more. He eases her to the ground and cradles her against him, stroking her hair and pressing kisses to her skin, wiping away the dried blood to reach every inch of her.

* * *

She still doesn't know what Morrigan and Loghain did that night. Morrigan has disappeared, and Loghain refuses to speak of it except to say, "The Archdemon is dead. Completely dead. The Blight is over," and while she doesn't understand how it can be true and Zevran threatens to pull the answers from him with blades, she knows he isn't lying. Her only nightmares are lingering, infrequent images of Drakon, but her near death has eased even those, at least for now. The Archdemon is gone. She's alive. Zevran is with her.

Alistair and Anora also live. They returned to Denerim as soon as the city had been cleared. They'd retreated to one of the few ships the disused, haphazard Ferelden navy still possesses, staying safe out on the water, and it was Bann Teagan who'd made the call to return to land. A week after the Archdemon's death, the two are wed and crowned. Fynnea watches from her spot nestled against Zevran's side.

They haven't left each other for more than a few minutes since he embraced her on the roof of the fort, and their fingers are always entwined. She keeps touching the band on his finger with wonder and joy and he keeps laughing and kissing her tattoo, which is healing perfectly despite being covered in the blood of the Archdemon for what turns out was over an hour as she lay insensate on the stone. Sometimes, she asks him if she's really alive, and he grins and proceeds to demonstrate just how not dead she is.

They sit and talk and laugh for long, relieved hours with her father and cousins, who are staying now in the palace. Fynnea finally feels their safety in a way she couldn't during the battle. She finally cries and hugs and whispers apologies for not coming sooner. Her father smiles, and says that he always knew she would come. And, of course, her mother would be proud. He's no longer angry, as he had been when he first heard the news that she spared Loghain. Instead, he thanks the Teyrn for protecting his daughter, and Loghain, in turn, offers deep, honest apologies. Through it all, Zevran is by her side.

Zevran's been forced to let go of her hand and her hips now, though, because she's standing before Alistair's throne and he's announcing her to the whole room as the Hero of Ferelden. She'd argued it, but Alistair was clear that while all their companions had been instrumental in carrying out their quest, even he and Zevran had to step back for this moment. He's praising her and glossing over her multiple acts of violent rage, her childishness, her _Fynnea_-ness, but she lets him, rolling her eyes while only Anora and Alistair can see it. Anora's fighting back a small, pleased smirk, glad to know the Hero knows her limits.

When Alistair asks what she would like as a boon, the answer comes easily.

Shianni becomes the first Bann of the Alienage (and a far better Bann she'll be than Isolde is an Arlessa, she thinks, with a smug little smile).

When Alistair asks her what she will do next, that answer is equally clear - clean the land of the Blight, and search for new Warden recruits. She can't stay in this castle, for the same reason she couldn't become Bann Fynnea. She'll hurt somebody very quickly if she has to be stuffed into their tight gowns and made to sit still.

Before she can turn away, Alistair reaches out for her. He doesn't touch. He knows better. He does offer a small smile, which she returns uneasily. They haven't spoken since-

"Loghain explained what he did. The ritual. That he saved your life."

"... Yeah. About that-"

"The Orlesian Wardens are bound to ask what happened, and why you aren't dead. I shall tell them I don't know, and they can ask the great Loghain Mac Tir about it. We'll see how they respond to that, hm?" Alistair grins.

"... You're not still mad at me, are you?"

"Well, _yes_," he says, after a brief hesitation. "I mean, I don't _like_ him. I hate him, actually. But Anora's quite- happy about it. And he did come through, I suppose. Still, I'm going to be sending him on duties far from the capital, and from Ferelden, if I can help it."

"Of course, Warden King," she responds, and he laughs, then shoos her down the steps.

"You've got the public to keep happy. Go, go."

She nods and retreats down the dais stairs, and begins to make the rounds of everybody waiting in the Landsmeet chamber. She accepts the well wishes from friends and companions, but joins Zevran again as quickly as she can.

"Continuing the adventure?" he asks, quirking a brow, and she nods.

"You'll- be there, right?"

He hums thoughtfully, then shrugs. "Oh, I suppose. There are worse fates in life than serving a deadly sex goddess." And then he grins, a wicked little smile that makes her toes curl.

She leans in and whispers, "I have an idea, for tonight. You're going to _hate_ it."

"Oh, do tell!"

"I have an adoring public to see," Fynnea says, gesturing to the door. "Sadly."

"Sadly," he agrees. "They shall adore you too much, and you shall leave me for the entire city of Denerim!" She rolls her eyes, and he laughs, giving her hand a squeeze. "Destroy them with your glory, my Warden. They will fall at your feet, I guarantee."

"Please don't gas the Market," she groans, but she groans through a smile that he returns.

"The thought had never crossed my mind."

"Never?"

"... Well."

* * *

When they're alone and it's quiet and they've talked the day over with colorful expletives and choice comments and little sneaky jokes, when she's finally shed her armor that she donned for the parade, she beckons him close. He obeys with a little smirk that she knows means he's excited and curious.

"You said you had an idea I'll hate?" he purrs, and she nods.

She reaches to his belt and his grin widens, until she slips Fang from her sheath and holds it, hilt out, to him.

He frowns, taking it gingerly. "... Yes?"

"Remember what you said? At Redcliffe? That making sure I could handle pain kept your own demons at bay?" He nods, slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "And," she continues, feeling the bare start of a blush, "remember when Loghain said I should get over my hang-ups?"

He nods again.

"You," she says, smiling, "are going to play with me tonight. With Fang. Because," she continues, before he can object, "I trust you, and I know it will feel good. And I want it to leave marks. I _love_ it when you leave marks."

Zevran sighs, finally looking down at the blade, meticulously cleaned and sharpened after the battle of Denerim. "Are you sure?" he asks, running his finger along the edge of the blade, testing it.

She nods.

"It would- be easiest if I tied you down. So you can't move enough to make me cut too deep."

Fynnea shakes her head at that. "... No. That, I'm not pushing. Not tonight." They've played rough and they've played gentle in the week since the Archdemon fell, and this has been dancing at the edge of her mind the whole time. It's a whole mix of heady things - trust in Zevran, harnessing their demons, pushing past her weaknesses. Punishing herself for leaving him behind, for not dying, for- everything that's gone wrong this whole journey. But, most of all, it's because she knows Zevran will know a way to make it feel good. And she knows he'll leave marks that will last.

And, "This will prove to you that you're not going to snap and kill me," she adds, softly.

He lets out a breath she didn't notice he was holding, and he smiles.

"... You want it to leave a mark?"

"I do."

"Any mark in particular?"

She shakes her head. He hums thoughtfully, then carefully sets the blade on the bed and moves to his pack. He pokes around inside of it, then comes up with a jar of white powder. "Pigment," he explains when she frowns. "For tattoos. What I used on your face was like this, but mixed with water and some herbs. White doesn't show up well in tattoos, but if we want this to leave scars- well. Something needs to go in there to give the healing process some trouble, yes?"

"And I scar white."

"Exactly." He stands up and comes back over to her, setting the jar down on the bed as well. "... This- this _is_ dangerous, you know. Even if neither of us panic."

"I know."

"And it _will_ hurt. And my idea- it will take a lot of strength from you."

"I can make it."

"Of course you can," he murmurs, remembering a day long ago on a mountaintop where she killed a dragon, drank its blood, and discovered the most holy of artifacts. She can do anything.

They go over the rules. Safe words, the sort of pain she can expect, what rhythm of cutting he will use, where he will cut. He tells her about how sometimes, when in pain, the mind can go elsewhere, and she nods, because she thinks she understands. She doesn't want to go back there. But he shakes his head and explains that if she trusts him, if she's not scared, it's a wonderful place to be. A post-climax high, but _better_, and he'll be sure to make it good. He'll be here when she comes down.

They set out bandages and poultice and Zevran goes over aloud where in the palace Wynne is staying. Only then does he ask her to undress, and it's a question, not an order. They play with orders from time to time, but not now- now, it's an exchange of trust and gifts, not of control or power.

She asks if they'll use the bed, but he says no. The floor is more stable and easier to clean. She stretches out on her stomach on the cold stone, and his fingers rub and massage at her back to warm and relax her. She melts into his touch, the contrast of cold and warm enticing and lulling.

She feels his fingers tracing curved lines, thinks she hears whispered numbers.

"Are you ready?" he asks, before he even touches edge to skin.

She stops herself from answering immediately, instead closing her eyes and thinking. Her nightmares have grown easier to handle, and she remembers the thrill of the scabbard, the exaltation of battle. She remembers him pulling her into his arms and asking her to never leave again. She remembers the ring on his finger, and how much she trusts him.

"I'm ready."

The first cut is unexpectedly both excruciating and _tender_, a quick swipe of the blade, not very deep at all. It's surprising, how fast he moves, how _sure_, but she still twitches and cries out. The blade is set down and he strokes along her spine, fingers warm and sure. When she settles, he begins pressing at the wound, working the pigment in, and _that_ hurts, too. It reminds her almost too much of the feeling of fire beneath her skin because of the poisons forced down her throat, but he's kissing the prominences of her spine, telling her how _good_ she's being.

She relaxes again.

The second cut is both harder and easier. She knows what to expect, and her fingers scrabble at the floor to keep herself from moving or lashing out. She's exercising control over herself, keeping herself quiet except for whimpers, still except for small muscle twitches. She does it for herself, and she does it for him.

This is Zevran, cutting curved patterns into her back, staying well away from her spine and cutting only as deep as he absolutely has to. This is Zevran, countering the worst of the pain with light touches to her thighs, her shoulders. Every four cuts, he sets the blade and pigment aside, and presses kisses all over her, runs his fingers over her back, her legs, her sex. He draws out little whimpers of pleasure between the whimpers of pain.

Instead of getting more bearable, the sensations become more intense the higher he works up her back, and there's one or two points where she loses control and bucks, but he has the blade well away from her by then, and she only makes him repack a few of the cuts with pigment. She's on the verge of thrashing again when she feels herself beginning to float, edging towards that escape, and his fingers have a _rhythm_ that make it easier to find. It's that same beautiful alignment of the exhilaration of battle with her Reaver's blood pumping through her and the bliss of orgasm that she's known from the first night she drew him back into her tent, but it's stronger, all-consuming, and she lets it take her after only a moment's hesitation.

The pain falls away and she's left with nothing but blissful stillness, the warmth of him nearby, the thrumming of her body. She moans, cries out under his hands, wanting him to touch her all over but being utterly fine with the light touches and soft laughs she can feel and hear somewhere in the distance. She knows he's working his way up her body, but it doesn't matter as much as the smell and sounds and feel of him does. He's _there_. She's _flying_. Drakon is _gone_, and so is all the shame and guilt and anger and fear that have kept her tense and tight even during this last surreal week. She melts beneath his touch, skin parting easily beneath her mother's dagger, and it all feels so _right_.

It's perfect.

She comes down wrapped in bandages and a blanket and Zevran's arms. He's whispering how much he loves her, how he never wants to leave her, how she's the first person to understand him and accept him and not want to _use_ him. She smiles. She murmurs his name and he kisses her forehead. He lifts her up and carries her to the bed, then settles her down in his lap again. She snuggles close, because she's cold, so strangely cold, and he seems to understand. He draws her tight against him.

"What happened?" she yawns several hundred heartbeats later, when words have returned.

"You went flying," he responds with a smile.

"And now I'm cold."

"That happens," he agrees, and he strokes her covered body. "You were so- I can't describe it. I don't know if I want to see you _quite_ like that again, with all the blood, but-"

She nods. "Yeah. It felt-" She can't find the words, either, so she shifts subjects. "And you didn't kill me."

"I didn't," he agrees. "And I never once had to fight the urge to."

"See, I was right."

He rolls his eyes. "You," Zevran says, "are right about altogether too many things."

"'s my job. Kingmaker. Blightslayer. Other two-part words."

Zevran chuckles and begins unwrapping the layers around her. "Before I let you fall asleep, I should make sure you haven't loosened any of the powder with your squirming, my Warden."

"Oh," Fynnea says sleepily.

"And besides, don't you want to see what I've created?"

She nods, pliant in his arms, standing shakily when he asks her to. She leans against his chest as he works, and he positions them so her back is to the mirror. When the last of the bandages falls away, he murmurs for her to look.

He holds her hair away from her neck, and she can see, on either side of her spine, seven horizontal, almond-shaped leaves, and a final leaf upright along the line of her neck. Each leaf is made of two cuts, one curving up, the other down, neither quite meeting.

"Deathroot," she murmurs, and he nods, holding her gaze in her reflection.

"I must admit, I first thought of a rose. But I'm no bastard Princeling. Deathroot seems more appropriate from a Crow to his mark, no?"

She smiles.

Her father once told her that her temper would be the death of her, but she's still not so sure about that. True, it's taken many things from her. Threatened many others. And it's only been through learning how to ride the beast that is her temper that she's managed to keep what she has. But she _can_ ride atop that beast, control it, learn to make it work for her.

No, it's not her temper that will be the death of her. It's how strongly her heart beats for this, for the arms of an Antivan Crow around her and the delicious stinging pain of his marks upon her skin. But, she hopes, that death won't be for a long, long time.

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_A/N:_ And now all that's left is a post-Awakening epilogue, coming next Wednesday! Thank you to everybody who's read this far - I'm still amazed every time I look at my viewership statistics! I hope the fluff of the final few chapters hasn't put anybody off, haha.

Reviews, as always, are much appreciated! :)


	10. Epilogue: Amaranthine

**Chapter Warnings: **None!

**Disclaimer:** The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.

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**Temper, Temper: Epilogue**

The Warden stares out at the sea for hours when they let her.

Anders has teased her about it, dropped pointed questions, even asked Nathaniel to filch the piece of parchment she sometimes clutches tight in her armored fist. Nathaniel refused out of respect, and Anders's other methods have failed miserably. He can only guess that she lost a sweetheart at sea, though the thought of Fynnea Tabris with a sweetheart of any sort seems more horrifying than romantic. She's volatile and sometimes cruel and often childish. But, he reminds herself, she's also the Hero of Ferelden and the slayer of the Mother, and she is beautiful, in a terrifyingly pint-sized sort of way. And she's good with Ser Pounce-a-Lot.

She makes a horrible Arlessa, though.

She still has the nobles locked in the Keep, for one, and Amaranthine is still a gutted ruin. At least it's stopped smoldering.

They're returning now from their most recent survey of the city, trying to salvage what they can and scheduling sections for demolition to clear the way for rebuilding. Fynnea, as always, spent much of the time staring out at the distant sea instead of concentrating, Nathaniel picking up the slack. It's been nine months since Fynnea killed the Architect, nine months of slow rebuilding and strained patience. A year of Fynnea ruling the Arling. Nathaniel's been taking the brunt of it. His politician blood is helping him hold up under the weight, but even he is restless.

They reach the Keep near sundown, and it's quiet. They slump in through the front gates, and they're tired enough that only Nathaniel looks around with a small frown at the silence. The guards are still there, though, and the merchants. They're just nowhere near as active as they usually are, shouting to each other across the courtyard.

When they reach the steps up into the Keep proper, though, their erstwhile private pulls them aside and whispers, "There's somebody waiting for the Commander."

Fynnea sighs. "Another merchant who used to have holdings in Amaranthine, come nine months later to complain and demand recompense?"

The Private shakes her head. "It's- my lady, I believe they're _Crows_."

Fynnea straightens at that, eyes widening, then narrowing as she smirks. "Oh," she says, simply. And gestures for Nathaniel and Anders to follow.

"Why would _Crows_ be here?" Anders whispers, eyes darting around. "And- why would we _know_ they're here?"

"They want us to know," Nathaniel says, shrugging. "Perhaps they are here to offer their services to you?"

"Perhaps," Fynnea agrees. She still has that wicked grin, and Anders can't figure out _why_.

"Don't you dare say 'This will be fun'. You _always_ say things will be fun when they _really, _really aren't," he complains, and she just laughs at him.

She _always_ laughs at him.

This time, though, it's Nathaniel who says, "This will be fun." Anders sighs and shakes his fist at the (out of sight) heavens.

"You two have a warped sense of entertainment, you know that?"

Fynnea motions for him to be silent as they near the double doors into the main hall. She doesn't unsheathe her weapons. She just smiles a small little smile, as if to herself, and pushes open the doors.

Stationed around the room are men even Anders can recognize as assassins. They lean against pillars, obviously not making an attempt to stay hidden. Sitting draped over Fynnea's throne is a lithe elf with tanned skin and sun-bleached hair, the side of his face traced with tattoos that seem to echo, just a little, the tattoos of the Warden. He looks up as they enter, eyes fixing on Fynnea. Fynnea quirks a brow.

"I," the assassin says, "have been waiting for a year, now! And I find you still here. There have been many ships from Ferelden to Antiva, my Warden. I am _disappointed_. What has been keeping you?"

"Politics," Fynnea says with a shrug, and Anders thinks he can see her trembling. He frowns. The Warden, scared?

"Politics!" the elf scoffs, sitting up. "Well, my Warden, we are both in luck. Dealing with politics is a specialty of mine, yes?"

"Making a tidy living at that?"

He nods, grinning and standing. He stretches, crossing the room towards the central fire, then moving around it so he can keep his eyes on her face. "Very. I've carved out a little spot for myself. Theft, murder, blackmail- oh, and kidnappings. I do believe I've just added kidnappings to my list of services! What do you think?"

Now Fynnea's just grinning her wicked little I'm-having-_fun_ grin at the assassin, and Anders is twitching, feeling spells at his fingertips. Nathaniel shakes his head, whispering, "I think they have some history."

"I," Fynnea muses aloud, "think you'll have to fight me for that privilege. Let's see if Antiva's softened you - all that sun and good food and those nice leather boots." She draws her blades. The Crow's lackeys tense, but he holds up a hand.

"But of course, my Warden. I'd have it no other way." His grin is almost as joyously wicked as hers. "Just the two of us, yes?"

Fynnea crosses the ground between them, leans in to whisper, and Anders can just make out, "Going to assassinate me _properly_?" before the assassin laughs and unsheathes his own weapons.

"Later, my Warden. Once I've won the privilege, yes?"

He's almost a mirror of her, but he carries the more traditional sword and dagger pair to her twinned longswords, and when they begin to move, he's faster, more evasive, more acrobatic. They both tumble, but he tumbles better in his leather armor, and they both strike, but she strikes harder. Watching it is like watching a dance, the performers moving through known steps, intense in their concentration but knowing the outcome already.

He wishes _he_ knew the outcome already.

There's a moment when he thinks it's over, when the Crow slips beneath her defenses and manages to grab her right wrist and disarm her, but instead of moving in for a kill or a knock-out blow, he lets go of her wrist before she can respond and leans in and- Anders can't entirely see it, but it almost looks like he's kissing Fynnea's cheek, and then she's _laughing_ and dancing away, picking up her blade and saying, "Best two out of three?"

And then they're dancing again.

It's clear they've fought before, and that there's more to this than a kidnapping attempt, but Anders can't parse it out. Their feet are moving too fast and this time she's the one tripping him, managing to hook his ankle with her toes as he goes into a tumble, and it sends him splaying out on the floor. She follows through to the point of pinning him down, one leg dangerously high between his, but then she _definitely_ kisses him, and Anders just groans in confusion.

Because they're dancing _again_ only a few seconds later.

"History," Nathaniel says again, and there's heavy footsteps behind them. Oghren, Anders can tell without turning, because he knows the sound and he knows the _smell_.

"Well, yeah," Oghren grunts. "The man's practically her husband. Was wondering when he'd show up."

"Oh," Anders says, simply, staring as the two move across the room, swords flashing but always stopping just before an injury. They know each other, know how they move, how they dodge, how exactly they tense when a blade is close. It's amazing to watch, and he feels like he's seeing a different Fynnea, a different Hero.

He watches as the assassin pulls her into a hold and laughs, "Does it still get the blood pumping, my Warden?" before she breaks away, watches as she pushes blade against blade for just a brief moment, leaning in to respond, "Of course- I wouldn't be a deadly sex goddess otherwise, hm?"

Anders thinks his mouth might be hanging open.

"Yeah, obnoxious, right?" Oghren grunts. "At least they can put on a good show, sometimes. You wouldn't _believe_ the things he does to her-"

Both the elves are laughing now, and it looks like sheer luck when the assassin manages to throw her onto her back and come down on top of her. She's panting and he's grinning, and then he leans down and kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips. "Well," he says, sitting back on his heels. "Shall I kidnap you, then? Take you back to Antiva, show you off to all the bastard princelings? Perhaps one will give you a rose."

"Perhaps I'll punch one in the face," she responds with a strange little smile, and her lover laughs.

"I would have it no other way, my Warden," he says, and helps to pull her to her feet. His fingers find the nape of her neck, and in a brief moment where her hair parts, Anders thinks he sees the outline of a leaf bright against the red flush of her skin.

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_A/N:_ And that's all, folks! (Though I may write one-shots about them, when the mood strikes.) _A Story Not About Wars or Heroes_ is plodding along - two chapters written. But it's moving much more slowly than _Temper, Temper_.

But just because my templar/blood mage extravaganza is taking a while doesn't mean there isn't more fic on its way. I'm currently editing a Sten/genderqueer!Brosca one-shot (Trust me, it makes sense!), and I have a Cauthrien/Zev fic that's threatening to turn into a multi-chapter adventure. So, be on the look out for the two of those. :) There's also another Jane Amell/Anders fic on the way, if you've read _Whispers in the Dark_, but I've put it on hold until I can see what they've done with Anders in DA2. :)

As always, reviews and comments are always appreciated! I don't bite, I promise - and I love getting to know my readers.


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